/REVERiES\ 

OFA 

BACHELOR 


IK 
MARVEL 


REVERIES   <?/ 
A   BACHELOR 


OR 


A  BOOK  of  THE  HEART 


By   IK   MARVEL 


With  I/lustrations  &  Decorations  by 

E.  M.  ASHE 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1906 
THB  BOBBS-MHRRILL  COMPANT 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH  IL  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.    N.    Y. 


To 

Mrs.  E.  L.  Dixon 

of  Hartford^  Connecticut 

This   book  is  respectfully  inscribed; 

by  her  friend 

THE  AUTHOR 


., 
/lj  Of 


CONTENTS 


FIRST  REVERIE 


Over  a  Wood  Fire     .... 
I    Smoke,  Signifying  Doubt 
II    Blaze,  Signifying  Cheer 
III   Ashes,  Signifying  Desolation 


SECOND  REVERIE 

By  a  City  Grate         .... 
I   Sea-Coal  .... 

II   Anthracite  .        . 


47 
57 
77 


THIRD  REVERIE 
Over  His  Cigar          -        ... 
I    Lighted  With  a  Coal      . 
II   With  a  Wisp  of  Paper  . 
Ill    Lighted  With  a  Match  . 


99 

105 

121 
137 


FOURTH  REVERIE 

PAGE 

Morning,  Noon  and  Evening    .        .        .        -155 

I   Morning — Which  Is  the  Past        .        .  165 

School  Days 177 

The  Sea 191 

The  Father-Land        ....  201 

A  Roman  Girl 213 

The  Appenines 225 

Enrica 235 

II   Noon — Which  Is  the  Present         .        .  245 

Early  Friends 249 

School  Revisited         ....  259 

College 267 

The  Packet  of  Bella    .        .        .        .275 

III   Evening — Which  Is  the  Future    .        .  287 

Carry 293 

The  Letter 303 

New  Travel 311 

Home            327 


This  book  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  it 
pretends  to  be ;  it  is  a  collection  of  those 
floating  reveries  which  have,  from  time  to 
time,  drifted  across  my  brain.  I  never  yet 
met  with  a  bachelor  who  had  not  his  share 
of  just  such  floating  visions;  and  the  only 
difference  between  us  lies  in  the  fact  that 
I  have  tossed  them  from  me  in  the  shape  of 
a  book. 

If  they  had  been  worked  over  with  more 
unity  of  design  I  dare  say  I  might  have 
made  a  respectable  novel;  as  it  is,  I  have 
chosen  the  honester  way  of  setting  them 
down  as  they  came  seething  from  my 
thought,  with  all  their  crudities  and  con 
trasts,  uncovered. 

As  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them,  the  world 
may  believe  what  it  likes ;  for,  having  writ 
ten  to  humor  the  world,  it  would  be  hard 
if  I  should  curtail  any  of  its  privileges  of 
judgment.  I  should  think  there  was  as 
much  truth  in  them  as  in  most  Reveries. 

The  first  story  of  the  book  has  already 


PREFACE 

had  some  publicity ;  and  the  criticisms  upon 
it  have  amused  and  pleased  me.  One  honest 
journalist  avows  that  it  could  never  have 
been  written  by  a  bachelor.  I  thank  him 
for  thinking  so  well  of  me,  and  heartily 
wish  that  his  thought  were  as  true  as  it  is 
kind. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  bachelors 
are  the  only  safe  and  secure  observers  of  all 
the  phases  of  married  life.  The  rest  of 
the  world  have  their  hobbies ;  and  by  law, 
as  well  as  by  immemorial  custom,  are  reck 
oned  unfair  witnesses  in  everything  relating 
to  their  matrimonial  affairs. 

Perhaps  I  ought,  however,  to  make  an 
exception  in  favor  of  spinsters,  who,  like 
us,  are  independent  spectators,  and  possess 
just  that  kind  of  indifference  to  the  marital 
state,  which  makes  them  intrepid  in  their 
observations,  and  very  desirable  for — au 
thorities. 

As  for  the  style  of  the  book  I  have  noth 
ing  to  say  for  it  except  to  refer  to  my  title. 
These  are  not  sermons,  nor  essays,  nor  crit 
icisms  ;  they  are  only  Reveries.  And  if  the 
reader  should  stumble  upon  occasional  mag 
niloquence,  or  be  worried  with  a  little  too 
much  of  sentiment,  pray  let  him  remember 
— that  I  am  dreaming. 


PREFACE 

But  while  I  say  this,  in  the  hope  of  nick 
ing  off  the  wiry  edge  of  my  reader's  judg 
ment,  I  shall  yet  stand  up  boldly  for  the 
general  tone  and  character  of  the  book.  If 
there  is  bad  feeling  in  it,  or  insincerity,  or 
shallow  sentiment,  or  any  foolish  depth  of 
affection  betrayed — I  am  responsible;  and 
the  critics  may  expose  it  to  their  hearts' 
content. 

I  have,  moreover,  a  kindly  feeling  for 
these  Reveries,  from  their  very  private 
character;  they  consist  mainly  of  just  such 
whimseys  and  reflections  as  a  great  many 
brother  bachelors  are  apt  to  indulge  in,  but 
which  they  are  too  cautious,  or  too  prudent 
to  lay  before  the  world.  As  I  have  in  this 
matter  shown  a  frankness  and  naivete  which 
are  unusual,  I  shall  ask  a  corresponding 
frankness  in  my  reader ;  and  I  can  assure 
him  safely  that  this  is  eminently  one  of  those 
books  which  were  "never  intended  for  pub 
lication." 

In  the  hope  that  this  plain  avowal  may 
quicken  the  reader's  charity,  and  screen  me 
from  cruel  judgment, 

I  remain,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

IK  MARVEL. 

NEW  YORK,  November,  1850. 


FIRST  REVERIE 


SMOKE,  FLAME  AND  ASHES 


OVER  A  WOOD  FIRE 


I  HAVE  got  a  quiet  farmhouse  in  the 
country,  a  very  humble  place  to  be  sure, 
tenanted  by  a  worthy  enough  man,  of  the 
old  New  England  stamp,  where  I  sometimes 
go  for  a  day  or  two  in  the  winter,  to  look 
over  the  farm  accounts,  and  to  see  how  the 
stock  is  thriving  on  the  winter's  keep. 

One  side  the  door,  as  you  enter  from  the 
porch,  is  a  little  parlor,  scarce  twelve  feet 
by  ten,  with  a  cozy-looking  fireplace — a 
heavy  oak  floor — a  couple  of  armchairs  and 
a  brown  table  with  carved  lions'  feet.  Out 
of  this  room  opens  a  little  cabinet,  only 
big  enough  for  a  broad  bachelor  bedstead, 
where  I  sleep  upon  feathers,  and  wake  in 
the  morning,  with  my  eye  upon  a  saucy 
3 


o 


4  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

colored,  lithographic  print  of  some  fancy 
"Bessy." 

It  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the 
world,  of  which  I  am  bona  fide  owner ;  and 
I  take  a  vast  deal  of  comfort  in  treating  it 
just  as  I  choose.  I  manage  to  break  some 
article  of  furniture  almost  every  time  I  pay 
it  a  visit ;  and  if  I  can  not  open  the  window 
readily  of  a  morning,  to  breathe  the  fresh 
air,  I  knock  out  a  pane  or  two  of  glass  with 
my  boot.  I  lean  against  the  walls  in  a  very 
old  armchair  there  is  on  the  premises,  and 
scarce  ever  fail  to  worry  such  a  hole  in  the 
plastering  as  would  set  me  down  for  a 
round  charge  for  damages  in  town,  or  make 
a  prim  housewife  fret  herself  into  a  raging 
fever.  I  laugh  out  loud  with  myself,  in 
my  big  armchair,  when  I  think  that  I  am 
neither  afraid  of  one  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth  so 
hot  as  to  warm  half  the  cellar  below,  and 
the  whole  space  between  the  jambs  roars 
for  hours  together  with  white  flame.  To  be 
sure  the  windows  are  not  very  tight,  be 
tween  broken  panes  and  bad  joints,  so  that 
the  fire,  large  as  it  is,  is  by  no  means  an  ex 
travagant  comfort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile 
of  oak  and  hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth  ; 


o 


OVER  A   WOOD   FIRE  5 

I  put  out  the  tallow  candle  on  the  mantel 
(using  the  family  snuffers,  with  one  leg 
broken)  then,  drawing  my  chair  directly 
in  front  of  the  blazing  wood,  and  setting 
one  foot  on  each  of  the  old  iron  fire-dogs 
(until  they  grow  too  warm),  I  dispose  my 
self  for  an  evening  of  such  sober  and 
thoughtful  quietude,  as  I  believe,  on  my 
soul,  that  very  few  of  my  fellow  men  have 
the  good  fortune  to  enjoy. 

My  tenant,  meantime,  in  the  other  room 
I  can  hear  now  and  then — though  there  is 
a  thick  stone  chimney  and  broad  entry  be 
tween — multiplying  contrivances  with  his 
wife  to  put  two  babies  to  sleep.  This  oc 
cupies  them,  I  should  say,  usually  an  hour ; 
though  my  only  measure  of  time  (for  I 
never  carry  a  watch  into  the  country),  is 
the  blaze  of  my  fire.  By  ten,  or  there 
abouts,  my  stock  of  wood  is  nearly  ex 
hausted  ;  I  pile  upon  the  hot  coals  what  re 
mains,  and  sit  watching  how  it  kindles,  and 
blazes,  and  goes  out — even  like  our  joys ! 
and  then  slip  by  the  light  of  the  embers 
into  my  bed,  where  I  luxuriate  in  such 
sound  and  healthful  slumber  as  only  such 
rattling  window  frames  and  country  air  can 
supply. 

But  to  return :  the  other  evening — it  hap- 


6  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

pened  to  be  on  my  last  visit  to  my  farm 
house — when  I  had  exhausted  all  the  ordi 
nary  rural  topics  of  thought,  had  formed 
all  sorts  of  conjectures  as  to  the  income  of 
the  year;  had  planned  a  new  wall  around 
one  lot,  and  the  clearing  up  of  another,  now 
covered  with  patriarchal  wood,  and  won 
dered  if  the  little  rickety  house  would  not 
be,  after  all,  a  snug  enough  box  to  live  and 
to  die  in — I  fell  on  a  sudden  into  such  an 
unprecedented  line  of  thought,  which  took 
such  a  deep  hold  of  my  sympathies — some 
times  even  starting  tears — that  I  deter 
mined,  the  next  day,  to  set  as  much  of  it 
as  I  could  recall  on  paper. 

Something — it  may  have  been  the  home- 
looking  blaze  (I  am  a  bachelor  of — say  six 
and  twenty),  or  possibly  a  plaintive  cry  of 
the  baby  in  my  tenant's  room  had  suggested 
to  me  the  thought  of — Marriage. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-dogs,  the  last 
armful  of  my  wood ;  and  now,  said  I,  brac 
ing  myself  courageously  between  the  arms 
of  my  chair — I'll  not  flinch ;  I'll  pursue  the 
thought  wherever  it  leads,  though  it  lead  me 
to  the  d —  (I  am  apt  to  be  hasty)  at  least — 
continued  I,  softening — until  my  fire  is  out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed 
no  disposition  to  blaze.  It  smoked  furious- 


OVER    A    WOOD    FIRE 


ly.  Smoke,  thought  I,  always  goes  before 
blaze  ;  and  so  does  doubt  go  before  decision : 
and  my  reverie,  from  that  very  starting 
point,  slipped  into  this  shape : 


SMOKE SIGNIFYING    DOUBT 


ft 


A  WIFE?  thought  I;  yes,  a  wife!  And 
why? 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not — why? 
Why  not  doubt ;  why  not  hesitate ;  why  not 
tremble  ? 

Does  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery — a 
poor  man,  whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to 
secure  the  ticket — without  trembling,  hesi 
tating,  and  doubting? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respectabil 
ity,  his  independence,  and  comfort,  upon 
the  die  of  absorbing,  unchanging,  relent 
less  marriage,  without  trembling  at  the  ven 
ture? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase 


o 


IO  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

his  fancies  over  the  wide  world,  without  let 
or  hindrance,  shut  himself  up  to  marriage- 
ship,  within  four  walls  called  home,  that 
are  to  claim  him,  his  time,  his  trouble, 
and  his  tears,  thenceforward  forever  more, 
without  doubts  thick  and  thick-coming  as 
smoke  ? 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere 
observer  of  other  men's  cares  and  business, 
moving  off  where  they  made  him  sick  of 
heart,  approaching  whenever  and  wherever 
they  made  him  gleeful — shall  he  now  un 
dertake  administration  of  just  such  cares 
and  business  without  qualms?  Shall  he, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  but  a  nimble  suc 
cession  of  escapes  from  trifling  difficulties, 
now  broach,  without  doublings,  that  matri 
mony,  where  if  difficulty  beset  him  there  is 
no  escape?  Shall  this  brain  of  mine,  care 
less-working,  never  tired  with  idleness, 
feeding  on  long  vagaries,  and  high,  gigan 
tic  castles,  dreaming  out  beatitudes  hour  by 
hour — turn  itself  at  length  to  such  dull 
task-work,  as  thinking  out  a  livelihood  for 
wife  and  children? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny 
dreams,  in  which  I  have  warmed  my  fan 
cies,  and  my  heart,  and  lighted  my  eye  with 
crystal?  This  very  marriage,  which  a  bril- 


SMOKE — SIGNIFYING   DOUBT 


II 


liant  working  imagination  has  invested  time 
and  again  with  brightness  and  delight,  can 
serve  no  longer  as  a  mine  for  teeming 
fancy:  all,  alas,  will  be  gone — reduced  to 
the  dull  standard  of  the  actual !  No  more 
room  for  intrepid  forays  of  imagination — 
no  more  gorgeous  realm-making — all  will 
be  over ! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming  ? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after- 
dinner  fancy,  idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint 
for  you  ?  Can  any  children  make  less  noise 
than  the  little  rosy-cheeked  ones,  who  have 
no  existence,  except  in  the  omnium  gath 
erum  of  your  own  brain?  Can  any  house 
wife  be  more  unexceptionable  than  she  who 
goes  sweeping  daintily  the  cobwebs  that 
gather  in  your  dreams?  Can  any  domestic 
larder  be  better  stocked  than  the  private 
larder  of  your  head  dozing  on  a  cushioned 
chair-back  at  Delmonico's  ?  Can  any  family 
purse  be  better  filled  than  the  exceeding 
plump  one  you  dream  of  after  reading  such 
pleasant  books  as  Munchausen  or  Typee? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be — duty,  or 
what-not,  making  provocation — what  then? 
And  I  clapped  my  feet  hard  against  the  fire- 
dogs,  and  leaned  back,  and  turned  my  face 
to  the  ceiling,  as  much  as  to  say:  And 


If 


I      I 

12  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

where  on  earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil  look 
for  a  wife? 

Somebody  says,  Lyttleton  or  Shaftes- 
bury,  I  think,  that,  "marriages  would  be 
happier  if  they  were  all  arranged  by  the 
lord  chancellor."  Unfortunately,  we  have 
no  lord  chancellor  to  make  this  commuta 
tion  of  our  misery. 

Shall  a  man,  then,  scour  the  country  on 
a  mule's  back,  like  Honest  Gil  Bias,  of 
Santillane;  or  shall  he  make  applkcrtion  to 
some  such  intervening  providence  as  Ma 
dame  St.  Marc,  who,  as  I  see  by  the  Presse, 
manages  these  matters  to  one's  hand,  for 
some  five  per  cent,  on  the  fortunes  of  the 
parties  ? 

I  have  trouted  when  the  brook  was  so 
low  and  the  sky  so  hot  that  I  might  as  well 
have  thrown  my  fly  upon  the  turnpike ;  and 
I  have  hunted  hare  at  noon,  and  woodcock 
in  snow-time — never  despairing,  scarce 
doubting;  but  for  a  poor  hunter  of  his 
kind,  without  traps  or  snares,  or  any  aid 
of  police  or  constabulary,  to  traverse  the 
world,  where  are  swarming,  on  a  moderate 
computation,  some  three  hundred  and  odd 
millions  of  unmarried  women,  for  a  single 
capture — irremediable,  unchangeable — and 
yet  a  captive  which,  by  strange  metonymy 


c 


SMOKE — SIGNIFYING  DOUBT  13 

not  laid  down  in  the  books,  is  very  apt  to 
turn  captor  into  captive,  and  make  game 
of  hunter — all  this,  surely,  surely  may  make 
a  man  shrug  with  doubt ! 

Then  —  again  —  there  are  the  plaguy 
wife's  relations.  Who  knows  how  many 
third,  fourth,  or  fifth  cousins  will  appear  at 
careless,  complimentary  intervals  long  after 
you  had  settled  into  the  placid  belief  that 
all  congratulatory  visits_  were  at  an  end? 
How  many  twisted-headed  brothers  will  be 
putting  in  their  advice,  as  a  friend  to 
Peggy? 

How  many  maiden  aunts  will  come  to 
spend  a  month  or  two  with  their  "dear 
Peggy,"  and  want  to  know  every  tea-time 
"if  she  isn't  a  dear  love  of  a  wife?"  Then 
dear  father-in-law  will  beg  (taking  dear 
Peggy's  hand  in  his)  to  give  a  little  whole 
some  counsel ;  and  will  be  very  sure  to 
advise  just  the  contrary  of  what  you  had  de 
termined  to  undertake.  And  dear  mamma- 
in-law  must  set  her  nose  into  Peggy's  cup 
board,  and  insist  upon  having  the  key  to 
your  own  private  locker  in  the  wainscot. 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of 
dirty-nosed  nephews,  who  come  to  spend 
the  holidays,  and  eat  up  your  East  India 
sweetmeats,  and  who  are  forever  tramping 


o 


14 


REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 


over  your  head  or  raising  the  old  Harry 
below,  while  you  are  busy  with  your  clients. 
Last,  and  worst,  is  some  fidgety  old  uncle, 
forever  too  cold  or  too  hot,  who  vexes  you 
with  his  patronizing  airs,  and  impudently 
kisses  his  little  Peggy! 

— That  could  be  borne,  however,  for  per 
haps  he  has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peggy. 
Peggy,  then,  will  be  rich  (and  the  thought 
made  me  rub  my  shins,  which  were  now 
getting  comfortably  warm  upon  the  fire- 
dogs).  Then,  she  will  be  forever  talking  of 
her  fortune ;  and  pleasantly  reminding  you 
on  occasion  of  a  favorite  purchase — how 
lucky  that  she  had  the  means ;  and  dropping 
hints  about  economy;  and  buying  very  ex 
travagant  Paisleys. 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the 
stock  list  at  breakfast  time ;  and  mention 
quite  carelessly  to  your  clients,  that  she  is 
interested  in  such,  or  such  a  speculation. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you 
hint  to  a  tradesman  that  you  have  not  the 
money  by  you  for  his  small  bill — in  short, 
she  will  tear  the  life  out  of  you,  making  you 
pay  in  righteous  retribution  of  annoyance, 
grief,  vexation,  shame  and  sickness  of 
heart,  for  the  superlative  folly  of  "marry 
ing  rich." 


C 

^ 


SMOKE — SIGNIFYING   DOUBT  1$ 

— But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.  Bah!  the 
thought  made  me  stir  the  coals ;  but  there 
was  still  no  blaze.  The  paltry  earnings  you 
are  able  to  wring  out  of  clients  by  the  sweat 
of  your  brow,  will  now  be  all  our  income ; 
you  will  be  pestered  for  pin-money,  and  pes 
tered  with  your  poor  wife's  relations.  Ten 
to  one  she  will  stickle  about  taste — "Sir 
Visto's" — and  want  to  make  this  so  pretty, 
and  that  so  charming,  if  she  only  had  the 
means;  and  is  sure  Paul  (a  kiss)  can't  deny 
his  little  Peggy  such  a  trifling  sum,  and  all 
for  the  common  benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  her  chil 
dren  shan't  go  a-begging  for  clothes — and 
another  pull  at  the  purse.  Trust  a  poor 
mother  to  dress  her  children  in  finery ! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly — not  noticeable  at 
first,  but  growing  on  her,  and  (what  is 
worse)  growing  faster  on  you.  You  won 
der  why  you  didn't  see  that  vulgar  nose  long 
ago :  and  that  lip — it  is  very  strange,  you 
think,  that  you  ever  thought  it  pretty.  And 
then — to  come  to  breakfast,  with  her  hair 
looking  as  it  does,  and  you  not  so  much 
as  daring  to  say — "Peggy,  do  brush  your 
hair !"  Her  foot,  too — not  very  bad  when 
decently  chaussce — but  now,  since  she's 
married,  she  does  wear  such  infernal  slip- 


J> 


l6  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

pers !  And  yet,  for  all  this,  to  be  prigging 
up  for  an  hour,  when  any  of  my  old  chums 
come  to  dine  with  me ! 

"Bless  your  kind  hearts !  my  dear  fel 
lows,"  said  I,  thrusting  the  tongs  into  the 
coals,  and  speaking  out  loud,  as  if  my  voice 
could  reach  from  Virginia  to  Paris — "not 
married  yet !" 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough — only 
shrewish. 

— No  matter  for  cold  coffee;  you  should 
have  been  up  before. 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly-cooked  chops,  to 
eat  with  your  rolls ! 

— She  thinks  they  are  very  good,  and 
wonders  how  you  can  set  such  an  example 
to  your  children. 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

— She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you'll  not 
raise  a  storm  about  butter  a  little  turned.  I 
think  I  see  myself — ruminated  I — sitting 
meekly  at  table,  scarce  daring  to  lift  up  my 
eyes,  utterly  fagged  out  with  some  quarrel 
of  yesterday,  choking  down  detestably  sour 
muffins  that  my  wife  thinks  are  "delicious" 
— slipping  in  dried  mouthfuls  of  burned 
ham  off  the  side  of  my  fork  tines — slipping 
off  my  chair  sideways  at  the  end,  and  slip 
ping  out  with  my  hat  between  my  knees,  to 


SMOKE SIGNIFYING   DOUBT  I/ 

business,  and  never  feeling  myself  a  compe 
tent,  sound-minded  man  till  the  oak  door  is 
between  me  and  Peggy  ! 

— "Ha,  ha — not  yet !"  said  I ;  and  in  so 
earnest  a  tone  that  my  dog  started  to  his 
feet — cocked  his  eye  to  have  a  good  look 
into  my  face — met  my  smile  of  triumph 
with  an  amiable  wag  of  the  tail,  and  curled 
up  again  in  the  corner. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well 
enough,  mild  enough,  only  she  doesn't  care 
a  fig  for  you.  She  has  married  you  be 
cause  father,  or  grandfather  thought  the 
match  eligible,  and  because  she  didn't  wish 
to  disoblige  them.  Besides,  she  didn't  posi 
tively  hate  you,  and  thought  you  were  a  re 
spectable  enough  young  person ;  she  has 
told  you  so  repeatedly  at  dinner.  She  won 
ders  you  like  to  read  poetry ;  she  wishes 
you  would  buy  her  a  good  cookbook;  and 
insists  upon  you  making  your  will  at  the 
birth  of  the  first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-and-So  a  splendid- 
looking  fellow,  and  wishes  you  would  trim 
up  a  little,  were  it  only  for  appearance's 
sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  office  so 
early  at  night :  she,  bless  her  dear  heart ! 
does  not  feel  lonely.  You  read  to  her  a 


r\ 


18 


REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 


love  tale;  she  interrupts  the  pathetic  parts 
with  directions  to  her  seamstress.  You 
read  of  marriages :  she  sighs,  and  asks  if 
Captain  So-and-So  has  left  town!  She 
hates  to  be  mewed  up  in  a  cottage,  or  be 
tween  brick  walls;  she  does  so  love  the 
Springs ! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you ;  at  least  she 
swears  it,  with  her  hand  on  the  Sorrows  of 
Werther.  She  has  pin-money  which  she 
spends  for  the  Literary  World  and  the 
Friends  in  Council.  She  is  not  bad  looking, 
save  a  bit  too  much  of  forehead ;  nor  is  she 
sluttish,  unless  a  neglige  till  three  o'clock, 
and  an  ink  stain  on  the  forefinger  be  slut 
tish  ;  but  then  she  is  such  a  sad  blue ! 

You  never  fancied,  when  you  saw  her 
buried  in  a  three-volumed  novel,  that  it  was 
anything  more  than  a  girlish  vagary ;  and 
when  she  quoted  Latin  you  thought,  inno 
cently,  that  she  had  a  capital  memory  for 
her  samplers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  Divine 
Dante  and  funny  Goldoni,  is  too  bad.  Your 
copy  of  Tasso,  a  treasure  print  of  1680,  is 
all  bethumbed  and  dog's-eared,  and  spotted 
with  baby  gruel.  Even  your  Seneca — an 
Elzevir — is  all  sweaty  with  handling.  She 
adores  La  Fontaine,  reads  Balzac  with  a 


SMOKE — SIGNIFYING   DOUBT  IQ 

kind  of  artist-scowl,  and  will  not  let  Greek 
alone. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and  an  aching 
head  at  breakfast,  and  she  will  fling  you  a 
scrap  of  anthology — in  lieu  of  the  camphor 
bottle — or  chant  theauuaiaT,  of  tragic  chorus. 

— The  nurse  is  getting  dinner ;  you  are 
holding  the  baby;  Peggy  is  reading 
Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and  puffed 
out  little  clouds  over  the  chimney  place.  I 
gave  the  fore-stick  a  kick,  at  the  thought  of 
Peggy,  baby  and  Bruyere. 

— Suddenly  the  flame  flickered  bluely 
athwart  the  smoke — caught  at  a  twig  be 
low — rolled  round  the  mossy  oak-stick — 
twined  among  the  crackling  tree-limbs — 
mounted — lit  up  the  whole  body  of  smoke, 
and  blazed  out  cheerily  and  bright.  Doubt 
vanished  with  Smoke,  and  Hope  began  with 
Flame. 


II 


BLAZE — SIGNIFYING  CHEER 

I  PUSHED  my  chair  back,  drew  up  an 
other,  stretched  out  my  feet  cozily  upon  it, 
rested  my  elbows  on  the  chair  arms,  leaned 
my  head  on  one  hand,  and  looked  straight 
into  the  leaping  and  dancing  flame. 

— Love  is  a  flame — ruminated  I ;  and 
(glancing  round  the  room)  how  a  flame 
brightens  up  a  man's  habitation. 

"Carlo,"  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into 
the  light,  "good  fellow,  Carlo!"  and  I 
patted  him  kindly,  and  he  wagged  his  tail, 
and  laid  his  nose  across  my  knee,  and 
looked  wistfully  up  in  my  face ;  then  strode 
away — turned  to  look  again,  and  lay  down 
to  sleep. 

21 


22  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

"Pho,  the  brute !''  said  I,  "it  is  not  enough, 
after  all,  to  like  a  dog.'' 

— If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the 
one  your  feet  lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside 
you — closer  yet — were  seated  a  sweet-faced 
girl,  with  a  pretty  little  foot  lying  out  upon 
the  hearth — a  bit  of  lace  running  round  the 
swelling  throat — the  hair  parted  to  a  charm 
over  a  forehead  fair  as  any  of  your  dreams ; 
and  if  you  could  reach  an  arm  around  that 
chair  back,  without  fear  of  giving  offense, 
and  suffer  your  fingers  to  play  idly  with 
those  curls  that  escape  down  the  neck ;  and 
if  you  could  clasp  with  your  other  hand 
those  little  white,  taper  fingers  of  hers, 
which  lie  so  temptingly  within  reach — and 
so,  talk  softly  and  low  in  presence  of  the 
blaze,  while  the  hours  slip  without  knowl 
edge,  and  the  winter  winds  whistle  uncared 
for;  if,  in  short,  you  were  no  bachelor,  but 
the  husband  of  some  such  sweet  image 
(dream,  call  it  rather),  would  it  not  be  far 
pleasanter  than  this  cold  single  night-sitting 
— counting  the  sticks — reckoning  the  length 
of  the  blaze,  and  the  height  of  the  falling 
snow? 

And  if,  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries 
that  grow  on  your  fancy  at  such  an  hour, 
you  could  whisper  into  listening,  because 


BLAZE — SIGNIFYING    CHEER  23 

loving  ears — ears  not  tired  with  listening, 
because  it  is  you  who  whisper — ears  ever 
indulgent  because  eager  to  praise ;  and  if 
your  darkest  fancies  were  lit  up,  not  merely 
with  bright  wood  fire,  but  with  a  ringing 
laugh  of  that  sweet  face  turned  up  in  fond 
rebuke — how  far  better  than  to  be  waxing 
black  and  sour  over  pestilential  humors — 
alone — your  very  dog  asleep. 

And  if,  when  a  glowing  thought  comes 
into  your  brain,  quick  and  sudden,  you 
could  tell  it  over  as  to  a  second  self,  to  that 
sweet  creature,  who  is  not  away,  because 
she  loves  to  be  there  ;  and  if  you  could  watch 
the  thought  catching  that  girlish  mind,  il 
luming  that  fair  brow,  sparkling  in  those 
pleasantest  of  eyes — how  far  better  than  to 
feel  it  slumbering,  and  going  out,  heavy, 
lifeless,  and  dead,  in  your  own  selfish  fancy. 
And  if  a  generous  emotion  steals  over  you — 
coming,  you  know  not  whither,  would  there 
not  be  a  richer  charm  in  lavishing  it  in 
caress,  or  endearing  word,  upon  that  fond 
est,  and  most  dear  one,  than  in  patting  your 
glossy-coated  dog,  or  sinking  lonely  to  smil 
ing  slumbers  ? 

How  would  not  benevolence  ripen  with 
such  monitor  to  task  it!  How  would  not 
selfishness  grow  faint  and  dull,  leaning  ever 


=5N 


24  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

to  that  second  self,  which  is  the  loved  one ! 
How  would  not  guile  shiver,  and  grow 
weak,  before  that  girl-brow  and  eye  of  in 
nocence  !  How  would  not  all  that  boyhood 
prized  of  enthusiasm,  and  quick  blood,  and 
life,  renew  itself  in  such  presence ! 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  moved 
into  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  shadows 
the  flames  made  were  playing  like  fairy 
forms  over  floor,  and  wall,  and  ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  surely  quicken,  thought 
I,  if  such  being  were  in  attendance.  Surely 
imagination  would  be  stronger  and  purer  if 
it  could  have  the  playful  fancies  of  dawn 
ing  womanhood  to  delight  it.  All  toil  would 
be  torn  from  mind-labor,  if  but  another 
heart  grew  into  this  present  soul,  quicken 
ing  it,  warming  it,  cheering  it,  bidding  it 
ever — God  speed ! 

Her  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a 
rainbow,  atop  of  all  such  noisome  things, 
as  we  lonely  souls  call  trouble.  Her  smile 
would  illumine  the  blackest  of  crowding 
cares ;  and  darkness  that  now  seats  you  de 
spondent,  in  your  solitary  chair  for  days  to 
gether,  weaving  bitter  fancies,  dreaming  bit 
ter  dreams,  would  grow  light  and  thin,  and 
spread,  and  float  away— chased  by  that  be 
loved  smile. 


BLAZE — SIGNIFYING   CHEER  25 

Your  friend — poor  fellow!  dies:  never 
mind,  that  gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as  she 
steals  behind  you,  telling  you  not  to  weep— 
it  is  worth  ten  friends ! 

Your  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead — buried. 
The  worms  are  busy  with  all  her  fairness. 
How  it  makes  you  think  earth  nothing  but 
a  spot  to  dig  graves  upon ! 

— It  is  more :  she ,  she  says,  will  be  a  sis 
ter  ;  and  the  waving  curls  as  she  leans  upon 
your  shoulder,  touch  your  cheek,  and  your 
wet  eyes  turn  to  meet  those  other  eyes — 
God  has  sent  his  angel,  surely ! 

Your  mother,  alas  for  it,  she  is  gone !  Is 
there  any  bitterness  to  a  youth,  alone,  and 
homeless,  like  this ! 

But  you  are  not  homeless ;  you  are  not 
alone ;  she  is  there — her  tears  softening 
yours,  her  smile  lighting  yours,  her  grief 
killing  yours ;  and  you  live  again,  to  assuage 
that  kind  sorrow  of  hers. 

Then — those  children,  rosy,  fair-haired  ; 
no,  they  do  not  disturb  you  with  their  prat 
tle  now — they  are  yours !  Toss  away  there 
on  the  greensward — never  mind  the  hya 
cinths,  the  snowdrops,  the  violets,  if  so  be 
any  are  there ;  the  perfume  of  their  health 
ful  lips  is  worth  all  the  flowers  of  the  world. 
No  need  now  to  gather  wild  bouquets  to 


o 


26  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

love  and  cherish :  flower,  tree,  gun,  are  all 
dead  things ;  things  livelier  hold  your  soul. 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fairest 
of  all,  watching,  tending,  caressing,  loving, 
till  your  own  heart  grows  pained  with  ten- 
derest  jealousy,  and  cures  itself  with  lov 
ing. 

You  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lec 
ture  to  teach  thankfulness ;  your  heart  is 
full  of  it.  No  need  now,  as  once,  of  burst 
ing  blossoms  of  trees  taking  leaf  and  green 
ness,  to  turn  thought  kindly  and  thank 
fully  ;  for,  ever  beside  you,  there  is  bloom, 
and  ever  beside  you  there  is  fruit — for 
which  eye,  heart  and  soul  are  full  of  un 
known,  and  unspoken,  because  unspeakable 
thank-offering. 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you, 
lays  you  down — no  lonely  moanings  and 
wicked  curses  at  careless-stepping  nurses. 
The  step  is  noiseless,  and  yet  distinct  be 
side  you.  The  white  curtains  are  drawn,  or 
withdrawn  by  the  magic  of  that  other  pres 
ence;  and  the  soft,  cool  hand  is  upon  your 
brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend-watchers, 
merely  come  in  to  steal  a  word  away  from 
that  outer  world,  which  is  pulling  at  their 
skirts;  but,  ever  the  sad,  shaded  brow  of 


BLAZE — SIGNIFYING    CHEER  2.J 

her,  whose  lightest  sorrow  for  your  sake  is 
your  greatest  grief — if  it  were  not  a  greater 
joy. 

The  blaze  was  leaping  light  and  high,  and 
the  wood  falling  under  the  growing  heat. 

— So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would  be 
at  length  itself — striving  with  everything 
gross,  even  now  as  it  clings  to  grossness. 
Love  would  make  its  strength  native  and 
progressive.  Earth's  cares  would  fly.  Joys 
would  double.  Susceptibilities  be  quick 
ened  ;  love  master  self ;  and  having  made 
the  mastery,  stretch  onward,  and  upward 
toward  infinitude. 

And  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness 
brought  that  follower — Great  Follower — 
which  sooner  or  later  is  sure  to  come  after, 
then  the  heart,  and  the  hand  of  love,  ever 
near,  are  giving  to  your  tired  soul,  daily 
and  hourly,  lessons  of  that  love  which  con 
soles,  which  triumphs,  which  circleth  all 
and  centereth  in  all — love  infinite  and  di 
vine! 

Kind  hands — none  but  hers — will  smooth 
the  hair  upon  your  brow  as  the  chill  grows 
damp  and  heavy  on  it ;  and  her  fingers — 
none  but  hers — will  lie  in  yours  as  the 
wasted  flesh  stiffens  and  hardens  for  the 
ground.  Her  tears — you  could  feel  no 


28 


REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 


others,  if  oceans  fell — will  warm  your 
drooping  features  once  more  to  life;  once 
more  your  eye,  lighted  in  joyous  triumph, 
kindles  in  her  smile,  and  then — 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth;  the  blaze 
gave  a  last  leap — a  flicker — then  another — 
caught  a  little  remaining  twig — blazed  up — 
wavered — went  out. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing 
embers,  over  which  the  white  ashes  gath 
ered  fast.  I  was  alone,  with  only  my  dog 
for  company. 


ASHES  —  SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION 


AFTER  all,  thought  I,  ashes  follow  blaze 
inevitably  as  death  follows  life.  Misery 
treads  on  the  heels  of  joy  ;  anguish  rides 
swift  after  pleasure. 

"Come  to  me  again,  Carlo,"  said  I  to  my 
dog;  and  I  patted  him  fondly  once  more. 
but  now  only  by  the  light  of  the  dying  em 
bers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in 
fondling  brute  favorites  ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure 
that  when  it  passes,  leaves  no  void.  It  is 
only  a  little  alleviating  redundance  in  your 
solitary  heart-life  which,  if  lost,  another  can 
be  supplied. 

But  if  your  heart,  not  solitary  —  not  quiet 
ing  its  humors  with  mere  love  of  chase,  or 
29 


n 


3O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

dog — not  repressing,  year  after  year,  its 
earnest  yearnings  after  something  better 
and  more  spiritual — has  fairly  linked  it 
self  by  bonds  strong  as  life,  to  another 
heart — is  the  casting  off  easy  then  ? 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy 
cut  off,  which  the  next  bright  sunset  will 
fill  up  ? 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  doubt 
under  the  smoke,  and  cheer  under  warmth 
of  the  blaze,  so  now  it  began  under  the  faint 
light  of  the  smoldering  embers,  to  picture 
heart-desolation. 

What  kind,  congratulatory  letters,  hosts 
of  them,  coming  from  old  and  half-forgot 
ten  friends,  now  that  your  happiness  is  a 
year,  or  two  years  old  ! 

"Beautiful." 

— Ay,  to  be  sure,  beautiful ! 

"Rich." 

— Pho,  the  dawdler !  how  little  he  knows 
of  heart-treasure,  who  speaks  of  wealth  to 
a  man  who  loves  his  wife  as  a  wife  only 
should  be  loved ! 

"Young." 

— Young  indeed;  guileless  as  infancy; 
charming  as  the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting:  they  bring 
to  mind,  with  new  and  newer  freshness,  if 


ASHES — SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION         3! 

it  be  possible,  the  value  of  that  which  you 
tremble  lest  you  lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step — if 
it  lose  not  its  buoyancy.  How  you  study  the 
color  on  that  cheek,  if  it  grow  not  fainter. 
How  you  tremble  at  the  luster  in  those  eyes, 
if  it  be  not  the  luster  of  death.  How  you 
totter  under  the  weight  of  that  muslin  sleeve 
— a  phantom  weight!  How  you  fear  to  do 
it,  and  yet  press  forward,  to  note  if  that 
breathing  be  quickened,  as  you  ascend  the 
home-heights,  to  look  off  on  the  sunset 
lighting  the  plain. 

Is  your  sleep,  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she 
has  whispered  to  you  her  fears,  and  in  the 
same  breath — soft  as  a  sigh,  sharp  as  an 
arrow — bid  you  bear  it  bravely  ? 

perhaps — the  embers  were  now  glowing 
fresher,  a  little  kindling,  before  the  ashes — 
she  triumphs  over  disease. 

But  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has 
come  to  you  with  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones, 
and  you  on  hope — kindling  each  morning, 
dying  slowly  each  night — this  could  be 
borne.  Philosophy  would  bring  home  its 
stores  to  the  lone  man.  Money  is  not  in  his 
hand,  but  knowledge  is  in  his  brain !  and 
from  that  brain  he  draws  out  faster,  as  he 


32  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

draws  slower  from  his  pocket.  He  remem 
bers  ;  and  on  remembrance  he  can  live  for 
days  and  weeks.  The  garret,  if  a  garret 
covers  him,  is  rich  in  fancies.  The  rain,  if 
it  pelts,  pelts  only  him  used  to  rain-peltings. 
And  his  dog  crouches  not  in  dread,  but  in 
companionship.  His  crust  he  divides  with 
him,  and  laughs.  He  crowns  himself  with 
glorious  memories  of  Cervantes,  though  he 
begs ;  if  he  nights  it  under  the  stars,  he 
dreams  heaven-sent  dreams  of  the  prisoned 
and  homeless  Galileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of 
poor  Jonson's  plays.  He  chants  Dryden's 
odes,  and  dwells  on  Otway's  rhyme.  He 
reasons  with  Bolingbroke  or  Diogenes  as 
the  humor  takes  him,  and  laughs  at  the 
world,  for  the  world,  thank  Heaven,  has 
left  him  alone ! 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your 
palaces,  old  princes — the  world  is  mine ! 

I  care  not,  fortune,  what  you  me  deny. 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky; 

You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve, 

Let  health,  my  nerves  and  finer  fibers  brace, 
And  I,  their  toys,  to  the  great  children,  leave. 

Of   fancy,   reason,   virtue,  nought   can   we  be 
reave  ! 


ASHES — SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION         33 

But — if  not  alone  ? 

If  she  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for 
consolation,  for  home,  for  life — she,  reared 
in  luxury,  perhaps,  is  faint  for  bread  ? 

Then  the  iron  enters  the  soul ;  then  the 
nights  darken  under  any  skylight.  Then 
the  days  grow  long,  even  in  the  solstice  of 
winter. 

She  may  not  complain  ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart  grow  strong,  if  the 
strength  of  her  love  can  dam  up  the  foun 
tains  of  tears,  and  the  tied  tongue  not  tell 
of  bereavement?  Will  it  solace  you  to  find 
her  parting  the  poor  treasure  of  food  you 
have  stolen  for  her,  with  begging,  foodless 
children  ? 

But  this  ill,  strong  hands  and  Heaven's 
help  will  put  down.  Wealth  again ;  flowers 
again ;  patrimonial  acres  again ;  brightness 
again.  But  your  little  Bessie,  your  favorite 
child,  is  pining. 

Would  to  God !  you  say  in  agony,  that 
wealth  could  bring  fullness  again  into  that 
blanched  cheek,  or  round  those  little  thin 
lips  once  more ;  but  it  can  not.  Thinner 
and  thinner  they  grow ;  plaintive  and  more 
plaintive  her  sweet  voice. 

"Dear  Bessie" — and  your  tones  tremble ; 
you  feel  that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the 


34  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

grave  ?  Can  you  pluck  her  back  ?  Can  en 
dearments  stay  her?  Business  is  heavy, 
away  from  the  loved  child ;  home,  you  go, 
to  fondle  while  yet  time  is  left — but  this 
time  you  are  too  late.  She  is  gone.  She 
can  not  hear  you ;  she  can  not  thank  you  for 
the  violets  you  put  within  her  stiff  white 
hand. 

And  then — the  grassy  mound — the  cold 
shadow  of  head-stone ! 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is  rat 
tling  at  the  window  panes,  and  whistles  dis 
mally.  I  wipe  a  tear,  and  in  the  interval  of 
my  reverie,  thank  God,  that  I  am  no  such 
mourner. 

But  gaiety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to 
the  household.  All  is  bright  again : 

The  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter 
Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full ;  her  cheek  deli 
cate  as  a  flower.  Her  frailty  doubles  your 
love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps — frail  too — 
too  frail:  the  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes 
and  heart  on.  You  have  watched  him  grow 
ing,  ever  prettier,  ever  winning  more  and 


S 


ASHES — SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION         35 

more  upon  your  soul.  The  love  you  bore  to 
him  when  he  first  lisped  names — your  name 
and  hers — has  doubled  in  strength  now  that 
he  asks  innocently  to  be  taught  of  this,  of 
that,  and  promises  you  by  that  quick  curi 
osity  that  flashes  in  his  eye,  a  nind  full  of 
intelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea,  or 
flood,  that  he  perhaps  may  have  had — which 
unstrung  your  soul  to  such  tears  a.s  you  pray 
God  may  be  spared  you  again — has  en 
deared  the  little  fellow  to  your  heart  a  thou 
sandfold. 

And,  now  with  his  pale  sister  in  the 
grave,  all  that  love  has  come  away  from  the 
mound,  where  worms  feast,  and  centers  on 
the  boy. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they  harm 
him !  How  often  you  steal  to  his  bed  late 
at  night  and  lay  your  hand  lightly  upon  the 
brow,  where  the  curls  cluster  thick,  rising 
and  falling  with  the  throbbing  temples,  and 
watch,  for  minutes  together,  the  little  lips 
half-parted,  and  listen — your  ear  close  to 
them — if  the  breathing  be  regular  and 
sweet ! 

But  the  day  comes — the  night  rather — 
when  you  can  catch  no  breathing. 


L\ 

it 


30  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

Aye,  put  your  hair  away— compose  your 
self — listen  again. 

No,  there  is  nothing! 

Put  your  hand  now  to  his  brow — damp 
indeed — but  not  with  healthful  night  sleep : 
it  is  not  your  hand,  no,  do  not  deceive  your 
self — it  is  your  loved  boy's  forehead  that  is 
so  cold ;  and  your  loved  boy  will  never 
speak  to  you  again — never  play  again — he  is 
dead! 

Oh,  the  tears — the  tears :  what  blessed 
things  are  tears!  Never  fear  now  to  let 
them  fall  on  his  forehead,  or  his  lip,  lest 
you  waken  him !  Clasp  him — clasp  him 
harder — you  can  not  hurt,  you  can  not 
waken  him !  Lay  him  down,  gently  or  not, 
it  is  the  same;  he  is  stiff;  he  is  stark  and 
cold. 

But  courage  and  patience,  faith  and  hope 
recovers  itself  easier,  thought  I,  than  these 
embers  will  get  into  blaze  again. 

But  courage,  and  patience,  faith,  and  hope 
have  their  limit.  Blessed  be  the  man  who 
escapes  such  trial  as  will  determine  limit! 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near ;  for  how 
can  trial  take  hold  where  there  is  nothing 
by  which  to  try  ? 

A  funeral  ?    You  reason  with  philosophy. 


ASHES — SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION         37 

A  graveyard?  You  read  Hervey  and  muse 
upon  the  wall.  A  friend  dies?  You  sigh, 
you  pat  your  dog — it  is  over.  Losses  ?  You 
retrench — you  light  your  pipe — it  is  forgot 
ten.  Calumny?  You  laugh — you  sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to 
you  in  love  and  sorrow — what  then  ? 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and 
coolly  blow  the  dust  from  the  leaf-tops? 
Can  you  crimp  your  lip  with  Voltaire  ?  Can 
you  smoke  idly,  your  feet  dangling  with 
the  ivies,  your  thoughts  all  waving  fancies 
upon  a  church-yard  wall — a  wall  that  bor 
ders  the  grave  of  your  boy? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning  sting 
ing  Martial  into  rhyme  ?  Can  you  pat  your 
dog,  and  seeing  him  wakeful  and  kind,  say, 
"It  is  enough?"  Can  you  sneer  at  calumny, 
and  sit  by  your  fire  dozing? 

Blessed,  thought  I  again,  is  the  man  who 
escapes  such  trial  as  will  measure  the  limit 
of  patience  and  the  limit  of  courage ! 

But  the  trial  comes — colder  and  colder 
were  growing  the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods, 
is  fading.  Not  beauty  fading — that,  now 
that  your  heart  is  wrapped  in  her  being, 
would  be  nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning 


38  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

apprehension,  and  she  tries  hard  to  make 
that  step  of  hers  elastic. 

Your  trials  and  your  loves  together  have 
centered  your  affections.  They  are  not  now 
as  when  you  were  a  lone  man,  wide-spread 
and  superficial.  They  have  caught  from 
domestic  attachments  a  finer  tone  and  touch. 
They  cannot  shoot  out  tendrils  into  barren 
world-soil  and  suck  up  thence  strengthen 
ing  nutriment.  They  have  grown  under 
the  forcing-glass  of  home-roof,  they  will 
not  now  bear  exposure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as 
if  a  heart-bond  was  linking  you — as  if  a 
community  of  feeling  lay  between.  There 
is  a  heart-bond  that  absorbs  all  others ; 
there  is  a  community  that  monopolizes  your 
feeling.  When  the  heart  lay  wide  open,  be 
fore  it  had  grown  upon,  and  closed  around 
particular  objects,  it  could  take  strength 
and  cheer  from  a  hundred  connections  that 
now  seem  colder  than  ice. 

And  now  those  particular  objects — alas 
for  you! — are  failing. 

What  anxiety  pursues  you !  How  you 
struggle  to  fancy — there  is  no  danger ;  how 
she  struggles  to  persuade  you — there  is  no 
danger ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear — the  toil 


ASHES — SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION         39 

and  turmoil  of  the  city !  It  was  music  when 
you  were  alone ;  it  was  pleasant  even,  when 
from  the  din  you  were  elaborating  comforts 
for  the  cherished  objects — when  you  had 
such  sweet  escape  as  evening  drew  on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world 
careless  while  you  are  steeped  in  care. 
They  hustle  you  in  the  street ;  they  smile 
at  you  across  the  table ;  they  bow  carelessly 
over  the  way ;  they  do  not  know  what  can 
ker  is  at  your  heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  with  his  bill  for  the 
dead  boy's  funeral.  He  knows  your  grief; 
he  is  respectful.  You  bless  him  in  your 
soul.  You  wish  the  laughing  street-goers 
were  all  undertakers. 

Your  eye  follows  the  physician  as  he 
leaves  your  house  :  is  he  wise,  you  ask  your 
self  ;  is  he  prudent  ?  Is  he  the  best  ?  Did  he 
never  fail — is  he  never  forgetful? 

And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours,  is 
it  no  thinner — no  whiter  than  yesterday? 
Sunny  days  come  when  she  revives ;  color 
comes  back ;  she  breathes  freer ;  she  picks 
flowers ;  she  meets  you  with  a  smile.  Hope 
lives  again. 

But  the  next  day  of  storm  she  is  fallen. 
She  cannot  talk  even;  she  presses  your 
hand. 


4O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before 
your  time.  What  matter  for  clients — who 
is  to  reap  the  rewards?  What  matter  for 
fame — whose  eye  will  it  brighten?  What 
matter  for  riches — whose  is  the  inherit 
ance? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows ;  she 
is  looking  over  a  little  picture-book  be- 
thumbed  by  the  dear  boy  she  has  lost.  She 
hides  it  in  her  chair ;  she  has  pity  on  you. 

— Another  day  of  revival,  when  the 
spring  sun  shines,  and  flowers  open  out  of 
doors ;  she  leans  on  your  arm,  and  strolls 
into  the  garden  where  the  first  birds  are 
singing.  Listen  to  them  with  her — what 
memories  are  in  bird-songs !  You  need  not 
shudder  at  her  tears — they  are  tears  of 
thanksgiving.  Press  the  hand  that  lies  light 
upon  your  arm,  and  you,  too,  thank  God, 
while  yet  you  may ! 

You  are  early  home — mid-afternoon. 
Your  step  is  not  light ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down ;  her  eyes  half  closed ; 
her  breathing  long  and  interrupted. 

She  hears  you ;  her  eye  opens ;  you  put 
your  hand  in  hers ;  yours  trembles — hers 
does  not.  Her  lips  move ;  it  is  your  name. 


V-, 


ASHES — SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION         4! 

"Be  strong,"   she   says,   "God   will  help 

you!" 

She  presses  harder  your  hand :    "Adieu !" 
A  long  breath — another ;  you  are  alone 

again.     No  tears  now;  poor  man!     You 

cannot  find  them ! 

— Again  home  early.  There  is  a  smell 
of  varnish  in  your  house.  A  coffin  is  there ; 
they  have  clothed  the  body  in  decent  grave 
clothes,  and  the  undertaker  is  screwing 
down  the  lid,  slipping  round  on  tip-toe. 
Does  he  fear  to  waken  her  ? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the 
inscription  upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with 
his  coat  cuff.  You  look  him  straight  in  the 
eye;  you  motion  to  the  door;  you  dare  not 
speak. 

He  takes  up  his  hat  and  glides  out  stealth- 
ful  as  a  cat. 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all. 
It  is  a  nice  coffin — a  very  nice  coffin !  Pass 
your  hand  over  it — how  smooth  ! 

Some  sprigs  of  mignonette  are  lying 
carelessly  in  a  little  gilt-edged  saucer.  She 
loved  mignonette. 

It  is  a  good  stanch  table  the  coffin  rests 
on ;  it  is  your  table ;  you  are  a  housekeeper 
— a  man  of  family  ! 


42 


REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 


Ay,  of  family !  keep  down  outcry,  or  the 
nurse  will  be  in.  Look  over  at  the  pinched 
features  ;  is  this  all  that  is  left  of  her  ?  And 
where  is  your  heart  now  ?  No,  don't  thrust 
your  nails  into  your  hands,  nor  mangle  your 
lip,  nor  grate  your  teeth  together.  If  you 
could  only  weep ! 

— Another  day.  The  coffin  is  gone  out. 
The  stupid  mourners  have  wept — what  idle 
tears !  She  with  your  crushed  heart,  has 
gone  out ! 

Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your 
home  now? 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim  house 
keeper  has  made  comfortable  with  clean 
hearth  and  blaze  of  sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair ;  there  is  another 
velvet  cushioned  one,  over  against  yours — 
empty.  You  press  your  fingers  on  your 
eye-balls,  as  if  you  would  press  out  some 
thing  that  hurt  the  brain ;  but  you  cannot. 
Your  head  leans  upon  your  hand ;  your  eye 
rests  upon  the  flashing  blaze. 

Ashes  always  come  after  blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was 
sick — softly,  lest  the  prim  housekeeper  come 
after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  her 
chair;  they  have  hung  new  curtains  over 


ASHES — SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION         43 

the  bed.  They  have  removed  from  the 
stand  its  vials,  and  silver  bell;  they  have 
put  a  little  vase  of  flowers  in  their  place ;  the 
perfume  will  not  offend  the  sick  sense  now. 
They  have  half  opened  the  window,  that 
the  room  so  long  closed  may  have  air.  It 
will  not  be  too  cold. 

She  is  not  there. 

— Oh,  God!  thou  who  dost  temper  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb — be  kind ! 

The  embers  were  dark ;  I  stirred  them ; 
there  was  no  sign  of  life.  My  dog  was 
asleep.  The  clock  in  my  tenant's  chamber 
had  struck  one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes; 
how  they  came  there  I  know  not.  I  half 
ejaculated  a  prayer  of  thanks,  that  such 
desolation  had  not  yet  come  nigh  me ;  and 
a  prayer  of  hope — that  it  might  never  come. 

In  a  half  hour  more,  I  was  sleeping 
soundly.  My  reverie  was  ended. 


SECOND   REVERIE 


SEA-COAL  AND  ANTHRACITE 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE 


BLESSED  be  letters — they  are  the  moni 
tors,  they  are  also  the  comforters,  and  they 
are  the  only  true  heart-talkers !  Your 
speech,  and  their  speeches,  are  conventional ; 
they  are  molded  by  circumstance ;  they  are 
suggested  by  the  observation,  remark,  and 
influence  of  the  parties  to  whom  the  speak 
ing  is  addressed,  or  by  whom  it  may  be 
overheard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half 
through  its  utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a 
smile,  or  a  sneer.  It  is  not  individual ;  it  is 
not  integral :  it  is  social  and  mixed — half 
of  you,  and  half  of  others.  It  bends,  it 

47 


48  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  ad 
vances,  as  the  talk  of  others  presses,  relaxes, 
or  quickens. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  letters — there  you 
are,  with  only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the 
snow-white,  virgin  paper.  Your  soul  is  meas 
uring  itself  by  itself,  and  saying  its  own 
sayings ;  there  are  no  sneers  to  modify  its 
utterance — no  scowl  to  scare — nothing  is 
present  but  you,  and  your  thought. 

Utter  it  then  freely — write  it  down — 
stamp  it — burn  it  in  the  ink ! — There  it  is,  a 
true  soul-print ! 

Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion 
of  a  letter !  It  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the 
world.  Do  you  say,  it  is  studied,  made  up, 
acted,  rehearsed,  contrived,  artistic? 

Let  me  see  it,  then ;  let  me  run  it  over ; 
tell  me  age,  sex,  circumstance,  and  I  will 
tell  you  if  it  be  studied  or  real — if  it  be 
the  merest  lip-slang  put  into  words,  or 
heart-talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 

I  have  a  little  packet,  not  very  large,  tied 
up  with  narrow,  crimson  ribbon,  now 
soiled  with  frequent  handling,  which  far 
into  some  winter's  night,  I  take  down  from 
its  nook  upon  my  shelf,  and  untie,  and  open, 
and  run  over,  with  such  sorrow,  and  such 
joy — such  tears  and  such  smiles,  as  I  am 


BY  A   CITY  GRATE  &£) 

sure  make  me  for  weeks  after,  a  kinder  and 
holier  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  packet,  letters  in 
the  familiar  hand  of  a  mother — what  gen 
tle  admonition — what  tender  affection ! — 
God  have  mercy  on  him  who  outlives  the 
tears  that  such  admonitions,  and  such  affec 
tion  call  up  to  the  eye!  There  are  others 
in  the  budget,  in  the  delicate,  and  unformed 
hand  of  a  loved,  and  lost  sister — written 
when  she,  and  you  were  full  of  glee,  and  the 
best  mirth  of  youthfulness ;  does  it  harm 
you  to  recall  that  mirthfulness?  or  to  trace 
again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  scrawl 
ing  postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its  i's  so 
carefully  dotted,  and  its  gigantic  t's  so  care 
fully  crossed,  by  the  childish  hand  of  a  lit 
tle  brother? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  packet  of 
letters ;  I  almost  need  a  new  and  longer  rib 
bon  ;  the  old  one  is  getting  too  short.  Not 
a  few  of  these  new  and  cherished  letters,  a 
former  reverie*  has  brought  to  me ;  not  let 
ters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well  done, 
artfully  executed,  prettily  imagined — no 


*The  first  reverie — Smoke,  Flame  and  Ashes — 
was  published  some  months  previous  to  this,  in  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger. 


5O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

such  thing:  but  letters  of  sympathy — of 
sympathy  which  means  sympathy — the 
•?ra.6r)p.i  and  the  <rw. 

It  would  be  cold  and  dastardly  work  to 
copy  them;  I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  they,  the  kind  writers, 
have  seen  a  heart  in  the  reverie — have  felt 
that  it  was  real,  true.  They  know  it ;  a  se 
cret  influence  has  told  it.  What  matters  it, 
pray,  if,  literally,  there  was  no  wife,  and  no 
dead  child,  and  no  coffin  in  the  house?  Is 
not  feeling,  feeling;  and  heart,  heart?  Are 
not  these  fancies  thronging  on  my  brain, 
bringing  tears  to  my  eyes,  bringing  joy  to 
my  soul,  as  living,  as  anything  human  can 
be  living?  What  if  they  have  no  material 
type — no  objective  form?  All  that  is  crude 
— a  mere  reduction  of  ideality  to  sense — a 
transformation  of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthy 
— a  leveling  of  soul  to  matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  pas 
sion?  Is  anything  about  us  more  earnest 
than  that  same  thought  and  passion?  Is 
there  anything  more  real — more  character 
istic  of  that  great  and  dim  destiny  to  which 
we  are  born,  and  which  may  be  written 
down  in  that  terrible  word — Forever  ? 

Let  those  who  will  then,  sneer  at  what  in 
their  wisdom  they  call  untruth — at  what  is 


BY   A    CITY    GRATE  5! 

false,  because  it  has  no  material  presence: 
this  does  not  create  falsity;  would  to 
Heaven  that  it  did ! 

And  yet  if  there  was  actual,  material 
truth,  superadded  to  reverie,  would  such 
objectors  sympathize  the  more?  No!  a 
thousand  times,  no ;  the  heart  that  has  no 
sympathy  with  thoughts  and  feelings  that 
scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also — whatever  its 
mocking  tears,  and  gestures  may  say — to 
a  coffin  or  a  grave ! 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to 
these  cherished  letters. 

A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she 
says,  shed  a  tear — not  one,  but  many — over 
the  dead  boy's  coldness.  And  another,  who 
has  not  lost,  but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose, 
has  found  the  words  failing  as  she  read,  and 
a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist  spreading  over  the 
page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family 
ties,  that  make  life  a  charm,  has  listened 
nervously  to  careful  reading,  until  the  hus 
band  is  called  home,  and  the  coffin  is  in 
the  house — "Stop !" — she  says ;  and  a  gush 
of  tears  tells  the  rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say — "It  was  art 
fully  done."  A  curse  on  him ! — it  was  not 
art :  it  was  nature. 


52  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl- 
mind,  has  seen  something  in  the  love-pic 
ture — albeit  so  weak — of  truth;  and  has 
kindly  believed  that  it  must  be  earnest.  Ay, 
indeed  is  it,  fair,  and  generous  one — earnest 
as  life  and  hope!  Who,  indeed,  with  a 
heart  at  all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away 
irreparably  and  forever  from  the  shores  of 
youth — from  that  fairyland  which  young 
enthusiasm  creates,  and  over  which  bright 
dreams  hover — but  knows  it  to  be  real? 
And  so  such  things  will  be  read,  till  hopes 
are  dashed,  and  death  is  come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the 
book  in  tears. 

• — God  bless  them  all !  How  far  better 
this,  than  the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  par 
agraphs,  or  the  critically  contrived  approval 
of  colder  friends ! 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters,  carefully 
— to  be  read  when  the  heart  is  faint,  and 
sick  of  all  that  there  is  unreal,  and  selfish 
in  the  world.  Let  me  tie  them  together, 
with  a  new  and  longer  bit  of  ribbon — not 
by  a  love-knot,  that  is  too  hard — but  by  an 
easy-slipping  knot,  that  so  I  may  get  at 
them  the  better.  And  now,  they  are  all  to 
gether,  a  snug  packet,  and  we  will  label 
them,  not  sentimentally  ( I  pity  the  one  who 


BY   A    CITY    GRATE  53 

thinks  it!),  but  earnestly,  and  in  the  best 
meaning  of  the  term — SOUVENIRS  DU  COEUR. 

Thanks  to  my  first  reverie,  which  has 
added  to  such  a  treasure ! 

And  now  to  my  SECOND  REVERIE. 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The  fields, 
the  trees,  the  brooks  are  far  away  from  me, 
and  yet  they  are  very  present.  A  letter  from 
my  tenant — how  different  from  those  other 
letters  ! — lies  upon  my  table,  telling  me  what 
fields  he  has  broken  up  for  the  autumn 
grain,  and  how  many  beeves  he  is  fattening, 
and  how  the  potatoes  are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  From 
my  window  I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded 
house-tops — moralizing  often  upon  the 
scene,  but  in  a  strain  too  long  and  somber 
to  be  set  down  here.  In  place  of  the  wide 
country  chimney,  with  its  iron  fire-dogs,  is 
a  snug  grate,  where  the  maid  makes  me  a 
fire  in  the  morning,  and  rekindles  it  in  the 
afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair — a 
cozily  stuffed  office  chair — by  five  or  six 
o'clock  of  the  evening.  The  fire  has  been 
newly  made,  perhaps  an  hour  before :  first, 
the  maid  drops  a  withe  of  paper  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  grate,  then  a  stick  or  two  of 
pine-wood,  and  after  it  a  hod  of  Liverpool 


54  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

coal ;  so  that  by  the  time  I  am  seated  for 
the  evening,  the  sea-coal  is  fairly  in  a  blaze. 

When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the 
second  bar  of  the  grate,  the  maid  replen 
ishes  it  with  a  hod  of  anthracite ;  and  I  sit 
musing  and  reading,  while  the  new  coal 
warms  and  kindles — not  leaving  my  place, 
until  it  has  sunk  to  the  third  bar  of  the 
grate,  which  marks  my  bedtime. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the 
hours,  which  belong  to  you,  and  your  life, 
and  not  to  the  world.  A  watch  is  no  more 
the  measure  of  your  time,  than  of  the  time 
of  your  neighbors ;  a  church  clock  is  as  pub 
lic  and  vulgar  as  a  church- warden.  I 
would  as  soon  think  of  hiring  the  parish 
sexton  to  make  my  bed,  as  to  regulate  my 
time  by  the  parish  clock. 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your 
carpet,  or  a  streak  of  light  on  the  slated 
roof  yonder,  or  the  burning  of  your  fire, 
are  pleasant  time-keepers  full  of  presence, 
full  of  companionship,  and  full  of  the  warn 
ing — time  is  passing ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  meas 
ured  my  reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by 
the  burning  of  a  taper  ;  and  I  have  scratched 
upon  the  handle  to  the  little  bronze  taper- 
holder,  that  meaning  passage  of  the  New 


BY   A   CITY   GRATE 


55 


Testament — Nr£  yap  ep^erat — the  night  com- 
eth! 

But  I  must  get  upon  my  reverie ;  it  was  a 
drizzly  evening ;  I  had  worked  hard  during 
the  day,  and  had  drawn  my  boots — thrust 
my  feet  into  slippers — thrown  on  a  Turkish 
loose  dress,  and  Greek  cap — souvenirs  to 
me  of  other  times,  and  other  places,  and  sat 
watching  the  lively,  uncertain  yellow  pljiy 
of  the  bituminous  flame. 


IT  is  like  a  flirt — mused  I ;  lively,  uncer 
tain,  bright-colored,  waving  here  and  there, 
melting  the  coal  into  black  shapeless  mass, 
making  foul,  sooty  smoke,  and  pasty, 
trashy  residuum  !  Yet  withal — pleasantly 
sparkling,  dancing,  prettily  waving,  and 
leaping  like  a  roebuck  from  point  to  point. 

How  like  a  flirt !  And  yet  is  not  this 
tossing  caprice  of  girlhood,  to  which  I 
liken  my  sea-coal  flame,  a  native  play  of 
life,  and  belonging  by  nature  to  the  play 
time  of  life?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  essential 
fire-kindling  to  the  weightier  and  truer  pas 
sions — even  as  Jenny  puts  the  soft  coal 
first,  the  better  to  kindle  the  anthracite? 

57 


58  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

Is  it  not  a  sort  of  necessary  consumption 
of  young  vapors,  which  float  in  the  soul, 
and  which  is  left  thereafter  the  purer?  Is 
there  not  a  stage  somewhere  in  every  man's 
youth,  for  just  such  waving,  idle,  heart- 
blaze,  which  means  nothing,  yet  which  must 
be  got  over  ? 

Lamartine  says,  somewhere,  very  pret 
tily,  that  there  is  more  of  quick  running 
sap,  and  floating  shade  in  a  young  tree ;  but 
more  of  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  sturdy  ®ak — 
II  y  a  plus  de  sfa'e  folle  et  d'ombre  ilottante 
dans  Ics  jeuncs  plants  de  la  forct;  il  y  a 
plus  de  feu  dans  le  vieu.v  cceur  du  chcne. 

Is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness  of 
expression,  dressing  up  with  his  poetry — 
making  a  good  conscience  against  the  ghost 
of  some  accusing  Graziella,  or  is  there  truth 
in  the  matter  ? 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether 
widower  or  bachelor,  may  well  put  such 
sentiment  into  words :  it  feeds  his  wasted 
heart  with  hope ;  it  renews  the  exultation 
of  youth  by  the  pleasantest  of  equivocation, 
and  the  most  charming  of  self-confidence. 
But  after  all,  is  it  not  true?  Is  not  the 
heart  like  new  blossoming  field-plants, 
whose  first  flowers  are  half-formed,  one 
sided  perhaps,  but  by-and-by,  in  maturity  of 


SEA-COAL  59 

season,  putting  out  wholesome,  well-formed 
blossoms  that  will  hold  their  leaves  long  and 
bravely  ? 

Bulwer  in  his  story  of  The  Caxtons,  has 
counted  first  heart-flights  mere  fancy-pas 
sages — a  dalliance  with  the  breezes  of  love, 
which  pass,  and  leave  healthful  heart  appe 
tite.  Half  the  reading  world  has  read  the 
story  of  Trevanion  and  Pisistratus.  But 
Bulwer  is — past ;  his  heart-life  is  used  up — 
cpuise.  Such  a  man  can  very  safely  rant 
about  the  cool  judgment  of  after  years. 

Where  does  Shakespeare  put  the  unripe 
heart-age?  All  of  it  before  the  ambition, 
that  alone  makes  the  hero-soul.  The 
Shakespeare  man  "sighs  like  a  furnace," 
before  he  stretches  his  arm  tc  achieve  the 
"bauble,  reputation." 

Yet  Shakespeare  has  meted  a  soul-love, 
mature  and  ripe,  without  any  young  furnace 
sighs  to  Desdemona  and  Othello.  Cordelia, 
the  sweetest  of  his  play  creations,  loves 
without  any  of  the  mawkish  matter,  which 
makes  the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet.  And 
Florizel  in  the  Winter's  Tale,  says  to  Per- 
dita  in  the  true  spirit  of  a  most  sound  heart : 

My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  wishes 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 


6O  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

How  is  it  with  Hector  and  Andromache? 
no  sea-coal  blaze,  but  one  that  is  constant, 
enduring,  pervading:  a  pair  of  hearts  full 
of  esteem,  and  best  love — good,  honest,  and 
sound. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's 
presence,  with  Milton  for  showman.  Shall 
we  quote  by  this  sparkling  blaze,  a  gem 
from  the  Paradise  Lost?  We  will  hum  it 
to  ourselves — what  Raphael  sings  to  Adam 
— a  classic  song. 

Him,  serve  and  fear ! 

Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose;  joy  thou 
In  what  he  gives  to  thee,  this  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  Eve ! 

And  again : 

Love  refines 

The  thoughts,  and  heart  enlarges ;  hath  his  seat 

In  reason,  and  is  judicious:  is  the  scale 

By  which  to  Heavenly  love  thou  may'st  ascend ! 

None  of  the  playing  sparkle  in  this  love, 
which  belongs  to  the  flame  of  my  sea-coal 
fire  that  is  now  dancing,  lively  as  a  cricket. 
But  on  looking  about  my  garret  chamber,  I 
can  see  nothing  that  resembles  the  archan 
gel  Raphael,  or  "thy  fair  Eve." 


SEA-COAL  6 1 

There  is  a  degree  of  moisture  about  the 
sea-coal  flame,  which  with  the  most  earnest 
of  my  musing,  I  find  it  impossible  to  at 
tach  to  that  idea  of  a  waving  sparkling 
heart  which  my  fire  suggests.  A  damp 
heart  must  be  a  foul  thing  to  be  sure.  But 
whoever  heard  of  one  ? 

Wordsworth  somewhere  in  the  Excursion 
says: 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

What,  in  the  name  of  Rydal  Mount,  is  a 
dry  heart  ?  A  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive  of : 
a  bachelor's  heart  must  be  somewhat  dusty, 
as  he  nears  the  sixtieth  summer  of  his  pil 
grimage — and  hung  over  with  cobwebs,  in 
which  sit  such  watchful  gray  old  spiders 
as  avarice,  and  selfishness,  forever  on  the 
lookout  for  such  bottle-green  flies  as  lust. 

"I  will  never" — said  I — gripping  at  the 
elbows  of  my  chair — "live  a  bachelor  till 
sixty — never,  so  surely  as  there  is  hope  in 
man,  or  charity  in  woman,  or  faith  in  both  !" 

And  with  that  thought  my  heart  leaped 
about  in  playful  coruscations,  even  like  the 
flame  of  the  sea-coal — rising,  and  wrapping 
round  old  and  tender  memories  and  images 


62  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR 

that  were  present  to  me — trying  to  cling, 
and  yet  no  sooner  fastened  than  off — danc 
ing  again,  riotous  in  its  exultation — a  suc 
cession  of  heart-sparkles,  blazing,  and  go 
ing  out ! 

— And  is  there  not — mused  I — a  portion 
of  this  world  forever  blazing  in  just  such 
lively  sparkles,  waving  here  and  there  as 
the  air-currents  fan  them  ? 

Take,  for  instance,  your  heart  of  senti 
ment,  and  quick  sensibility,  a  weak,  warm- 
working  heart,  flying  off  in  tangents  of 
unhappy  influence,  unguided  by  prudence, 
and  perhaps  virtue.  There  is  a  paper  by 
Mackenzie,  in  the  Mirror  for  April,  1780, 
which  sets  this  untoward  sensibility  in  a 
strong  light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more 
strong  and  binding  such  a  habit  of  sensibil 
ity  becomes.  Poor  Mackenzie  himself  must 
have  suffered  thus ;  you  can  not  read  his 
books  without  feeling  it ;  your  eye,  in  spite 
of  you,  runs  over  with  his  sensitive  griefs, 
while  you  are  half-ashamed  of  his  success 
at  picture-making.  It  is  a  terrible  inherit 
ance  ;  and  one  that  a  strong  man  or  woman 
will  study  to  subdue:  it  is  a  vain  sea-coal 
sparkling,  which  will  count  no  good.  The 
world  is  made  of  much  hard,  flinty  sub- 


SEA-COAL  63 

stance,  against  which  your  better  and  holier 
thoughts  will  be  striking  fire — see  to  it  that 
the  sparks  do  not  burn  you ! 

But  what  a  happy,  careless  life  belongs 
to  this  bachelorhood  in  wrhich  you  may 
strike  out  boldly  right  and  left!  Your 
heart  is  not  bound  to  another  which  may 
be  full  of  only  sickly  vapors  of  feeling;  nor 
is  it  frozen  to  a  cold,  man's  heart  under  a 
silk  bodice — knowing  nothing  of  tender 
ness  but  the  name,  to  prate  of ;  and  nothing 
of  soul-confidence  but  clumsy  confession. 
And  if  in  your  careless  outgoings  of  feel 
ing  you  get  here  only  a  little  lip  vapidity 
in  return,  be  sure  that  you  will  find,  else 
where,  a  true  heart  utterance.  This  last  you 
will  cherish  in  your  inner  soul — a  nucleus 
for  a  new  group  of  affections ;  and  the  other 
will  pass  with  a  whiff  of  your  cigar. 

Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck, 
hurt,  who  is  the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but 
you  only?  And  have  you  not  the  whole 
skein  of  your  heart-life  in  your  own  fingers 
to  wind,  or  unwind,  in  what  shape  you 
please?  Shake  it,  or  twine  it,  or  tangle  it, 
by  the  light  of  your  fire,  as  you  fancy  best. 
He  is  a  weak  man  who  can  not  twist  and 
weave  the  threads  of  his  feeling — however 
fine,  however  tangled,  however  strained,  or 


64  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

however  strong — into  the  great  cable  of 
purpose,  by  which  he  lies  moored  to  his  life 
of  action. 

Reading  is  a  great  and  happy  disentan- 
gler  of  all  those  knotted  snarls — those  ex 
travagant  vagaries,  which  belong  to  a  heart 
sparkling  with  sensibility;  but  the  reading 
must  be  cautiously  directed.  There  is  old, 
placid  Burton,  when  your  soul  is  weak,  and 
its  digestion  of  life's  humors  is  bad ;  there  is 
Cowper,  when  your  spirit  runs  into  kindly, 
half-sad,  religious  musing;  there  is  Crabbe, 
when  you  would  shake  off  vagary,  by  a 
little  handling  of  sharp  actualities.  There 
is  Voltaire,  a  homeopathic  doctor,  whom 
you  can  read  when  you  want  to  make  a  play 
of  life,  and  crack  jokes  at  nature,  and  be 
witty  with  destiny ;  there  is  Rousseau,  when 
you  want  to  lose  yourself  in  a  mental  dream 
land,  and  be  beguiled  by  the  harmony  of 
soul-music  and  soul-culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and 
be  sturdiest  among  the  battlers  for  hard, 
world-success,  and  be  forewarned  of  rocks 
against  which  you  must  surely  smite — read 
Bolingbroke — run  over  the  letters  of  Lyttle- 
ton;  read,  and  think  of  what  you  read,  in 
the  cracking  lines  of  Rochefoucauld.  How 
he  sums  us  up  in  his  stinging  words ! — how 


SEA-COAL  65 

he  puts  the  scalpel  between  the  nerves — yet 
he  never  hurts;  for  he  is  dissecting  dead 
matter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial,  careless  mood,  who 
is  better  than  such  extemporizers  of  feel 
ing  and  nature — good-hearted  fellows — as 
Sterne  and  Fielding? 

And  then,  again,  there  are  Milton  and 
Isaiah,  to  lift  up  one's  soul  until  it  touches 
cloud-land,  and  you  wander  with  their 
guidance,  on  swift  feet,  to  the  very  gates 
of  heaven. 

But  this  sparkling  sensibility  to  one 
struggling  under  infirmity,  or  with  grief 
or  poverty,  is  very  dreadful.  The  soul  is 
too  nicely  and  keenly  hinged  to  be  wrenched 
without  mischief.  How  it  shrinks,  like  a 
hurt  child,  from  all  that  is  vulgar,  harsh 
and  crude !  Alas,  for  such  a  man  ! — he  will 
be  buffeted,  from  beginning  to  end ;  his  life 
will  be  a  sea  of  troubles.  The  poor  victim 
of  his  own  quick  spirit  he  wanders  with  a 
great  shield  of  doubt  hung  before  him,  so 
that  none,  not  even  friends,  can  see  the 
goodness  of  such  kindly  qualities  as  belong 
to  him.  Poverty,  if  it  comes  upon  him,  he 
wrestles  with  in  secret,  with  strong,  fren 
zied  struggles.  He  wraps  his  scant  clothes 
about  him  to  keep  him  from  the  cold;  and 


66  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

eyes  the  world,  as  if  every  creature  in  i\. 
was  breathing  chill  blasts  at  him,  from  every 
opened  mouth.  He  threads  the  crowded 
ways  of  the  city,  proud  in  his  griefs,  vain 
in  his  weakness,  not  stopping  to  do  good. 
Bulwer,  in  the  New  Timon,  has  painted  in 
a  pair  of  stinging  Pope-like  lines,  this  feel 
ing  in  a  woman : 

Her  vengeful  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 
She  hugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her 
throne ! 

Cold  picture !  yet  the  heart  was  sparkling 
under  it,  like  my  sea-coal  fire ;  lifting  and 
blazing,  and  lighting  and  falling — but  with 
no  object ;  and  only  such  little  heat  as  be 
gins  and  ends  within. 

Those  fine  sensibilities,  ever  active,  are 
chasing  and  observing  all ;  they  catch  a  hue 
from  what  the  dull  and  callous  pass  by  un 
noticed — because  unknown.  They  blunder 
at  the  great  variety  of  the  world's  opinions ; 
they  see  tokens  of  belief  where  others  see 
none.  That  delicate  organization  is  a  curse 
to  a  man:  and  yet,  poor  fool,  he  does  not 
see  where  his  cure  lies ;  he  wonders  at  his 
griefs,  and  has  never  reckoned  with  him 
self  their  source.  He  studies  others,  with 
out  studying  himself.  He  eats  the  leaves 


SEA-COAL  67 

that  sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the  root 
that  will  cure. 

With  a  woman  it  is  worse ;  with  her,  this 
delicate  susceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower, 
that  quivers  at  every  rough  blast  of  heaven ; 
her  own  delicacy  wounds  her;  her  highest 
charm  is  perverted  to  a  curse. 

She  listens  with  fear ;  she  reads  with 
trembling ;  she  looks  with  dread.  Her  sym 
pathies  give  a  tone,  like  the  harp  of  ^Holus, 
to  the  slightest  breath.  Her  sensibility 
lights  up,  and  quivers  and  falls  like  the 
flame  of  a  sea-coal  fire. 

If  she  loves  (and  may  not  a  bachelor  rea 
son  on  this  daintiest  of  topics),  her  love  is 
a  gushing,  wavy  flame,  lit  up  with  hope 
that  has  only  a  little  kindling  matter  to  light 
it ;  and  this  soon  burns  out.  Yet  intense 
sensibility  will  persuade  her  that  the  flame 
still  scorches.  She  will  mistake  the  annoy 
ance  of  affection  unrequited  for  the  sting  of 
a  passion  that  she  fancies  still  burns.  She 
does  not  look  deep  enough  to  see  that  the 
passion  is  gone,  and  the  shocked  sensitive 
ness  emits  only  faint,  yellowish  sparkles  in 
its  place ;  her  high-wrought  organization 
makes  those  sparks  seem  a  veritable  flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence  and  dis 
cretion  are  cold  measured  terms,  which 


68  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

have  no  meaning,  except  as  they  attach  to 
the  actions  of  others.  Of  her  own  acts  she 
never  predicates  them ;  feeling  is  much  too 
high  to  allow  her  to  submit  to  any  such 
obtrusive  guides  of  conduct.  She  needs  dis 
appointment  to  teach  her  truth;  to  teach 
that  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters — to  teach 
that  all  warmth  does  not  blaze.  But  let  her 
beware  how  she  sinks  under  any  fancied 
disappointments:  she  who  sinks  under  real 
disappointment,  lacks  philosophy;  but  she 
who  sinks  under  a  fancied  one,  lacks  pur 
pose.  Let  her  flee  as  the  plague  such  brood 
ing  thoughts  as  she  will  love  to  cherish ;  let 
her  spurn  dark  fancies  as  visitants  of  hell ; 
let  the  soul  rise  with  the  blaze  of  new- 
kindled,  active  and  world-wide  emotions, 
and  so  brighten  into  steady  and  constant 
flame.  Let  her  abjure  such  poets  as  Cow- 
per,  or  Byron,  or  even  Wordsworth ;  and  if 
she  must  poetize,  let  her  lay  her  mind  to 
such  manly  verse  as  Pope's,  or  to  such 
sound  and  ringing  organry  as  Comus. 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in 
the  poker:  it  started  up  on  the  instant  into 
a  hundred  little  angry  tongues  of  flame. 

— Just  so — thought  I — the  oversensitive 
heart  once  cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out 
a  score  of  flaming  passions,  darting  here 


SEA-COAL  69 

and  darting  there — half-smoke,  half-flame 
— love  and  hate — canker  and  joy — wild  in 
its  madness,  not  knowing  whither  its  sparks 
are  flying.  Once  break  roughly  upon  the 
affections,  or  even  the  fancied  affections  of 
such  a  soul,  and  you  breed  a  tornado  of 
maddened  action — a  whirlwind  of  fire  that 
hisses  and  sends  out  jets  of  wild,  impulsive 
combustion  that  make  the  bystanders — even 
those  most  friendly — stand  aloof  until  the 
storm  is  past. 

But  this  is  not  all  the  dashing  flame  of 
my  sea-coal  suggests. 

—How  like  a  flirt !  mused  I  again,  recur 
ring  to  my  first  thought — so  lively,  yet  un 
certain  ;  so  bright  yet  so  flickering !  Your 
true  flirt  plays  with  sparkles;  her  heart, 
much  as  there  is  of  it,  spends  itself  in 
sparkles ;  she  measures  it  to  sparkle,  and 
habit  grows  into  nature,  so  that  anon,  it  can 
only  sparkle.  How  carefully  she  cramps  it, 
if  the  flames  show  too  great  a  heat ;  how 
dexterously  she  flings  its  blaze  here  and 
there ;  how  coyly  she  subdues  it ;  how  win- 
ningly  she  lights  it ! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  un 
premeditated  dartings  of  the  soul  at  which 
I  have  been  looking;  sensibility  scorns 
heart-curbings  and  heart-teachings ;  sensi- 


7O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

bility  inquires  not — how  much !  but  only — 
where  ? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul ; 
well  modulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there 
is  no  fineness  in  it.  All  its  native  fineness 
is  made  coarse  by  coarse  efforts  of  the  will. 
True  feeling  is  a  rustic  vulgarity,  the  flirt 
does  not  tolerate;  she  counts  its  healthiest 
and  most  honest  manifestation,  all  senti 
ment.  Yet  she  will  play  you  off  a  pretty 
string  of  sentiment,  which  she  has  gathered 
from  the  poets;  she  adjusts  it  prettily  as  a 
Gobelin  weaver  adjusts  the  colors  in  his 
tapis.  She  shades  it  off  delightfully ;  there 
are  no  bold  contrasts,  but  a  most  artistic 
mellowing  of  nuances. 

She  smiles  like  a  wizard,  and  jingles  it 
with  a  laugh,  such  as  tolled  the  poor  home- 
bound  Ulysses  to  the  Circean  bower.  She 
has  a  cast  of  the  head,  apt  and  artful  as  the 
most  dexterous  cast  of  the  best  trout-killing 
rod.  Her  words  sparkle  and  flow  hurried 
ly,  and  with  the  prettiest  doubleness  of 
meaning.  Naturalness  she  copies  and  she 
scorns.  She  accuses  herself  of  a  single  ex 
pression  or  regard,  which  nature  prompts. 
She  prides  herself  on  her  schooling.  She 
measures  her  wit  by  the  triumphs  of  her 
art;  she  chuckles  over  her  own  falsity  to 


SEA-COAL  71 

herself.  And  if  by  chance  her  soul — such 
germ  as  is  left  of  it — betrays  her  into  un 
toward  confidence,  she  condemns  herself,  as 
if  she  had  committed  crime. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no 
depth  of  feeling  to  be  stirred.  The  brook 
that  runs  shallow  over  hard  pebbly  bottom 
always  rustles.  She  is  light-hearted,  be 
cause  her  heart  floats  in  sparkles — like  my 
sea-coal  fire.  She  counts  on  marriage,  not 
as  the  great  absorbent  of  a  heart's  love  and 
life,  but  as  a  happy,  feasible,  and  orderly 
conventionality,  to  be  played  with,  and  kept 
at  distance,  and  finally  to  be  accepted  as  a 
cover  for  the  faint  and  tawdry  sparkles  of 
an  old  and  cherished  heartlessness. 

She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  be 
cause  she  has  no  appreciation  of  any  loss : 
she  will  not  chafe  at  indifference,  because 
it  is  her  art ;  she  will  not  be  worried  with 
jealousies,  because  she  is  ignorant  of  love. 
With  no  conception  of  the  soul  in  its 
strength  and  fullness,  she  sees  no  lack  of  its 
demands.  A  thrill,  she  does  not  know ;  a 
passion,  she  can  not  imagine  ;  joy  is  a  name ; 
grief  is  another ;  and  life,  with  its  crowding 
scenes  of  love  and  bitterness,  is  a  play  upon 
the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says, 


72  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

in  something  like  the  same  connection :  Les 
hiboux  ne  connaissent  pas  le  chemin  par  oh 
Us  aigles  vont  an  soldi. 

— Poor  Ned !  mused  I,  looking  at  the 
play  of  the  fire — was  a  victim  and  a  con- 
'  queror.  He  was  a  man  of  a  full,  strong 
nature — not  a  little  impulsive — with  action 
too  full  of  earnestness  for  most  of  men  to  see 
its  drift.  He  had  known  little  of  what  is 
called  the  world  ;  he  was  fresh  in  feeling  and 
high  of  hope ;  he  had  been  encircled  always 
by  friends  who  loved  him,  and  who,  maybe, 
flattered  him.  Scarce  had  he  entered  upon 
the  tangled  life  of  the  city  before  he  met 
with  a  sparkling  face  and  an  airy  step  that 
stirred  something  in  poor  Ned  that  he  had 
never  felt  before.  With  him,  to  feel  was  to 
act.  He  was  not  one  to  be  despised ;  for, 
notwithstanding  he  wore  a  country  air,  and 
the  awkwardness  of  a  man  who  has  yet  the 
bienseance  of  social  life  before  him,  he  had 
the  soul,  the  courage,  and  the  talent  of  a 
strong  man.  Little  gifted  in  the  knowledge 
of  face-play,  he  easily  mistook  those  coy 
manoeuvers  of  a  sparkling  heart  for  some 
thing  kindred  to  his  own  true  emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man 
who  carried  a  mind  in  his  brain ;  and  flat 
tered  poor  Ned  almost  into  servility.  Ned 

wy 


SEA-COAL  73 

had  no  friends  to  counsel  him ;  or,  if  he  had 
them,  his  impulses  would  have  blinded  him. 
Never  was  dodger  more  artful  at  the  Olym 
pic  Games  than  the  Peggy  of  Ned's  heart- 
affection.  He  was  charmed,  beguiled,  en 
tranced. 

When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it 
off  with  the  prettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only 
bewildered  him  the  more.  A  charming 
creature  to  be  sure ;  coy  as  a  dove ! 

So  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  one  day 
— he  told  me  of  it  with  the  blood  mounting 
to  his  temples,  and  his  eye  shooting  flame — 
he  suffered  his  feelings  to  run  out  in  pas 
sionate  avowal — entreaty — everything.  She 
gave  a  pleasant,  noisy  laugh,  and  manifest 
ed — such  pretty  surprise ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of 
passion ;  and  lo,  there  was  nothing  but  the 
shifting  sparkle  of  a  sea-coal  flame. 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence — for  I 
was  his  senior  by  a  year ;  "My  dear  fellow," 
said  I,  "diet  yourself;  you  can  find  greens 
at  the  uptown  market ;  eat  a  little  fish  with 
your  dinner ;  abstain  from  heating  drinks ; 
don't  put  too  much  butter  to  your  cauli 
flower  ;  read  one  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  ser 
mons,  and  translate  all  the  quotations  at 
sight ;  run  carefully  over  that  exquisite  pic- 


74  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

ture  of  George  Dandin  in  your  Moliere,  and 
my  word  for  it,  in  a  week  you  will  be  a 
sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry  to  reply ;  but  eighteen 
months  thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three- 
sheeted  letter,  with  a  dove  upon  the  seal, 
telling  me  that  he  was  as  happy  as  a  king: 
he  said  he  had  married  a  good-hearted,  do 
mestic,  loving  wife,  who  was  as  lovely  as  a 
June  day,  and  that  their  baby,  not  three 
months  old,  was  as  bright  as  a  spot  of  June 
day  sunshine  on  the  grass. 

—What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife — 
mused  I — such  flashing,  flaming  flirt  must 
in  the  end  make ;  the  prostitute  of  fashion ; 
the  bauble  of  fifty  hearts  idle  as  hers ;  the 
shifting  make-piece  of  a  stage  scene ;  the 
actress,  now  in  peasant,  and  now  in  princely 
petticoats !  How  it  would  cheer  an  honest 
soul  to  call  her — his !  What  a  culmination 
of  his  heart-life ;  what  a  rich  dreamland  to 
be  realized! 

— Bah !  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into  the 
clotted  mass  of  fading  coal — just  such,  and 
so  worthless  is  the  used  heart  of  a  city  flirt ; 
just  so  the  incessant  sparkle  of  her  life,  and 
frittering  passions,  fuses  all  that  is  sound 
and  combustible  into  black,  sooty,  shape 
less  residuum. 


SEA-COAL 


75 


When  I  marry  a  flirt,  I  will  buy  second 
hand  clothes  of  the  Jews. 

— Still — mused  I — as  the  flame  danced 
again — there  is  a  distinction  between  co 
quetry  and  flirtation. 

A  coquette  sparkles,  but  it  is  more  the 
sparkle  of  a  harmless  and  pretty  vanity 
than  of  calculation.  It  is  the  play  of  hu 
mors  in  the  blood,  and  not  the  play  of 
purpose  at  the  heart.  It  will  flicker  around 
a  true  soul  like  the  blaze  around  an  omelette 
au  rhum,  leaving  the  kernel  sounder  and 
warmer. 

Coquetry,  with  all  its  pranks  and  teas- 
ings,  makes  the  spice  to  your  dinner — the 
mulled  wine  to  your  supper.  It  will  drive 
you  to  desperation,  only  to  bring  you  back 
hotter  to  the  fray.  Who  would  boast  a  vic 
tory  that  cost  no  strategy,  and  no  careful 
disposition  of  the  forces  ?  Who  would  bul 
letin  such  success  as  my  Uncle  Toby's,  in 
the  back  garden,  with  only  the  Corporal 
Trim  for  assailant?  But  let  a  man  be  very 
sure  that  the  city  is  worth  the  siege ! 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite ;  flirtation  de 
praves  it.  Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that  guards 
the  rose — easily  trimmed  off  when  once 
plucked.  Flirtation  is  like  the  slime  on 
water  plants,  making  them  hard  to  handle, 


76  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

and  when  caught,  only  to  be  cherished  in 
slimy  waters. 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the  flick 
ering  blaze,  I  see  in  my  reverie,  a  bright 
one  dancing  before  me,  with  sparkling,  co 
quettish  smile,  teasing  me  with  the  prettiest 
graces  in  the  world — and  I  grow  maddened 
between  hope  and  fear,  and  still  watch  with 
my  whole  soul  in  my  eyes ;  and  see  her  fea 
tures  by  and  by  relax  to  pity,  as  a  gleam  of 
sensibility  comes  stealing  over  her  spirit — 
and  then  to  a  kindly,  feeling  regard :  pres 
ently  she  approaches — a  coy  and  doubtful 
approach — and  throws  back  the  ringlets 
that  lie  over  her  cheek,  and  lays  her  hand — 
a  little  bit  of  white  hand — timidly  upon  my 
strong  fingers — and  turns  her  head  daintily 
to  one  side — and  looks  up  in  my  eyes  as 
they  rest  on  the  playing  blaze ;  and  my  rin 
gers  close  fast  and  passionately  over  that 
little  hand  like  a  swift  night-cloud  shroud 
ing  the  pale  tips  of  Dian — and  my  eyes 
draw  nearer  and  nearer  to  those  blue,  laugh 
ing,  pitying,  teasing  eyes,  and  my  arm  clasps 
round  that  shadowy  form  —  and  my  lips 
feel  a  warm  breath — growing  warmer  and 
warmer — 

Just  here  the  maid  comes  in,  throws  upon 
the  fire  a  panful  of  anthracite,  and  my 
sparkling  sea-coal  reverie  is  ended. 


IT  DOES  not  burn  freely,  so  I  put  on  the 
blower.  Quaint  and  good-natured  Xavier 
de  Maistre*  would  have  made,  I  dare  say,  a 
pretty  epilogue  about  a  sheet-iron  blower ; 
but  I  can  not. 

I  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  be 
longed  to  the  lingering  bituminous  flame, 
but  with  my  eyes  on  that  dark  blower — 
how  can  I  ? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which 
drops  down  before  our  brightest  dreams. 
How  often  the  phantoms  of  joy  regale  us, 
and  dance  before  us — golden-winged,  angel- 
faced,  heart-warming,  and  make  an  Elys- 

*  Voyage  autour  de  Ma  Chambre. 

77 


78 

ium  in  which  the  dreaming  soul  bathes  and 
feels  translated  to  another  existence ;  and 
then — sudden  as  night,  or  a  cloud — a  word, 
a  step,  a  thought,  a  memory  will  chase  them 
away  like  scared  deer  vanishing  over  a  gray 
horizon  of  moor-land ! 

I  know  not  justly,  if  it  be  a  weakness  or 
a  sin  to  create  these  phantoms  that  we  love, 
and  to  group  them  into  a  paradise — soul- 
created.  But  if  it  is  a  sin,  it  is  a  sweet  and 
enchanting  sin ;  and  if  it  is  a  weakness,  it 
is  a  strong  and  stirring  weakness.  If  this 
heart  is  sick  of  the  falsities  that  meet  it  at 
every  hand,  and  is  eager  to  spend  that 
power  which  nature  has  ribbed  it  with,  on 
some  object  worthy  of  its  fullness  and 
depth — shall  it  not  feel  a  rich  relief — nay 
more,  an  exercise  in  keeping  with  its  end, 
if  it  flow  out — strong  as  a  tempest,  wild  as 
a  rushing  river,  upon  those  ideal  creations, 
which  imagination  invents,  and  which  are 
tempered  by  our  best  sense  of  beauty,  pur 
ity  and  grace? 

— Useless,  do  you  say?  Ay,  it  is  as  use 
less  as  the  pleasure  of  looking,  hour  upon 
hour,  over  bright  landscapes ;  it  is  as  use 
less  as  the  rapt  enjoyment  of  listening  with 
heart  full  and  eyes  brimming,  to  such  music 
as  the  Miserere,  at  Rome ;  it  is  as  useless  as 


ANTHRACITE  79 

the  ecstasy  of  kindling  your  soul  into  fervor 
and  love,  and  madness,  over  pages  that  reek 
with  genius. 

There  are,  indeed,  base-molded  souls  who 
know  nothing  of  this ;  they  laugh ;  they 
sneer ;  they  even  affect  to  pity.  Just  so  the 
Huns,  under  the  avenging  Attila,  who  had 
been  used  to  foul  cookery  and  steaks  stewed 
under  their  saddles,  laughed  brutally  at  the 
spiced  banquets  of  an  Apicius ! 

— No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin ;  or 
if  it  be,  it  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full,  so 
earnest,  that  it  can  cry  to  Heaven  cheerily, 
and  sure  of  a  gracious  hearing — peccavi — 
misericorde! 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow, 
throwing  a  tranquil,  steady  light  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  my  garret.  How  unlike  it 
is  to  the  flashing  play  of  the  sea-coal ! — un 
like  as  an  unsteady,  uncertain-working  heart 
to  the  true  and  earnest  constancy  of  one 
cheerful  and  right. 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a  heart ; 
not  bent  on  vanities,  not  blazing  too  sharp 
with  sensibilities,  not  throwing  out  coquet 
tish  jets  of  flame,  not  wavering,  and  mean 
ingless  with  pretended  warmth,  but  open, 
glowing  and  strong.  Its  dark  shades  and 
angles  it  may  have ;  for  what  is  a  soul  worth 


80  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

that  does  not  take  a  slaty  tinge  from  those 
griefs  that  chill  the  blood.  Yet  still  the  fire 
is  gleaming ;  you  see  it  in  the  crevices ;  and 
anon  it  will  give  radiance  to  the  whole 
mass. 

— It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire ;  and  I  draw 
up  a  screen  painted  over  with  rough  but 
graceful  figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of 
modesty  (not  of  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy, 
iron,  repulsive  screen).  It  will  not  allow 
itself  to  be  looked  on  too  near — it  might 
scorch ;  but  through  the  veil  you  feel  the 
warmth  ;  and  through  the  pretty  figures  that 
modesty  will  robe  itself  in,  you  can  see  all 
the  while  the  golden  outlines,  and  by  that 
token,  you  know  that  it  is  glowing  and 
burning  with  a  pure  and  steady  flame. 

With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  natu 
rally — a  holy  and  heated  fusion ;  they  work 
together  like  twins-born.  With  such  a 
heart,  as  Raphael  says  to  Adam : 

Love  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious. 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from 
your  clay-cold,  lukewarm,  half-hearted  soul ; 
considerate,  because  ignorant ;  judicious,  be- 


ANTHRACITE  8 1 

cause  possessed  of  no  latent  fires  that  need 
a  curb ;  prudish,  because  with  no  warm 
blood  to  tempt.  This  sort  of  soul  may  pass 
scatheless  through  the  fiery  furnace  of  life ; 
strong,  only  in  its  weakness ;  pure,  because 
of  its  failings ;  and  good,  only  by  negation. 
It  may  triumph  over  love,  and  sin,  and 
death ;  but  it  will  be  a  triumph  of  the  beast, 
which  has  neither  passions  to  subdue,  or 
energy  to  attack,  or  hope  to  quench. 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and  ear 
nest  heart,  glowing  like  my  anthracite  coal. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now ;  the  eye  is 
deep  and  reaches  back  to  the  spirit ;  it  is  not 
the  trading  eye,  weighing  your  purse ;  it  is 
not  the  worldly  eye,  weighing  position ;  it  is 
not  the  beastly  eye,  weighing  your  appear 
ance  ;  it  is  the  heart's  eye  weighing  your 
soul! 

It  is  full  of  deep,  tender,  and  earnest  feel 
ing.  It  is  an  eye,  which  looked  on  once, 
you  long  to  look  on  again ;  it  is  an  eye 
which  will  haunt  your  dreams — an  eye 
which  will  give  a  color,  in  spite  of  you,  to 
all  your  reveries.  It  is  an  eye  which  lies 
before  you  in  your  future,  like  a  star  in  the 
mariner's  heaven;  by  it,  unconsciously,  and 
from  force  of  deep  soul  habit,  you  take  all 
your  observations.  It  is  meek  and  quiet; 


82  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

but  it  is  full  as  a  spring  that  gushes  in 
flood ;  an  Aphrodite  and  a  Mercury — a  Vau- 
cluse  and  a  Clitumnus. 

The  face  is  an  angel  face ;  no  matter  for 
curious  lines  of  beauty ;  no  matter  for  popu 
lar  talk  of  prettiness ;  no  matter  for  its 
angles,  or  its  proportions ;  no  matter  for  its 
color  or  its  form — the  soul  is  there,  illu 
minating  every  feature,  burnishing  every 
point,  hallowing  every  surface.  It  tells  of 
honesty,  sincerity  and  worth ;  it  tells  of 
truth  and  virtue — and  you  clasp  the  image 
to  your  heart  as  the  received  ideal  of  your 
fondest  dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that,  it  may  be 
tall  or  short,  it  matters  nothing — the  heart 
is  there.  The  talk  may  be  soft  or  low,  seri 
ous  or  piquant — a  free  and  honest  soul  is 
warming  and  softening  it  all.  As  you 
speak,  it  speaks  back  again ;  as  you  think,  it 
thinks  again  (not  in  conjunction,  but  in  the 
same  sign  of  the  Zodiac)  ;  as  you  love,  it 
loves  in  return. 

— It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy 
is  the  man  who  can  claim  such !  The 
warmth  that  lies  in  it  is  not  only  generous, 
but  religious,  genial,  devotional,  tender, 
self-sacrificing,  and  looking  heavenward. 

A  man  without  some  sort  of  religion  is, 


ANTHRACITE  83 


at  best,  a  poor  reprobate,  the  football  of 
destiny,  with  no  tie  linking  him  to  infinity, 
and  the  wondrous  eternity  that  is  begun 
with  him ;  but  a  woman  without  it  is  even 
worse — a  flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow 
without  color,  a  flower  without  perfume ! 

A  man  may,  in  some  sort,  tie  his  frail 
hopes  and  honors  with  weak,  shifting 
ground-tackle  to  business,  or  to  the  world ; 
but  a  woman  without  that  anchor  which 
they  call  faith  is  adrift  and  a-wreck!  A 
man  may  clumsily  contrive  a  kind  of  moral 
responsibility  out  of  his  relations  to  man 
kind,  but  a  woman  in  her  comparatively  iso 
lated  sphere,  where  affection  and  not  pur 
pose  is  the  controlling  motive,  can  find  no 
basis  for  any  system  of  right  action,  but 
that  of  spiritual  faith. 

A  man  may  craze  his  thought  and  his 
brain,  to  trustfulness  in  such  poor  harbor 
age  as  fame  and  reputation  may  stretch  be 
fore  him;  but  a  woman — where  can  she 
put  her  hope  in  storms,  if  not  in  Heaven  ? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness — that  abid 
ing  love — that  enduring  hope,  mellowing 
every  page  and  scene  of  life,  lighting  them 
with  pleasantest  radiance,  when  the  world- 
storms  break  like  an  army  with  smoking 
cannon — what  can  bestow  it  all,  but  a  holy 


84  REVERIES  OF   A   BACHELOR 

soul-tie  to  what  is  above  the  storms,  and  to 
what  is  stronger  than  an  army  with  can 
non?  Who  that  has  enjoyed  the  counsel 
and  the  love  of  a  Christian  mother,  but  will 
echo  the  thought  with  energy,  and  hallow 
it  with  a  tear? — et  moi,  je  pleurs! 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  my  room  is  warm. 
The  heat  that  with  its  glow  can  light  up, 
and  warm  a  garret  with  loose  casements 
and  shattered  roof,  is  capable  of  the  best 
love — domestic  love.  I  draw  farther  off, 
and  the  images  upon  the  screen  change. 
The  warmth,  the  hour,  the  quiet,  create  a 
home  feeling;  and  that  feeling,  quick  as 
lightning,  has  stolen  from  the  world  of 
fancy  (a  Promethean  theft),  a  home  ob 
ject,  about  which  my  musings  go  on  to 
drape  themselves  in  luxurious  reverie. 

— There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the 
fire,  in  a  neat  home  dress,  of  sober,  yet 
most  adorning  color.  A  little  bit  of  lace 
ruffle  is  gathered  about  the  neck,  by  a  blue 
ribbon ;  and  the  ends  of  the  ribbon  are 
crossed  under  the  dimpling  chin,  and  are 
fastened  neatly  by  a  simple,  unpretending 
brooch — your  gift.  The  arm,  a  pretty  taper 
arm,  lies  over  the  carved  elbow  of  the  oaken 
chair;  the  hand,  white  and  delicate,  sus- 


ANTHRACITE  85 

tains  a  little  home  volume  that  hangs  from 
her  fingers.  The  forefinger  is  between  the 
leaves,  and  the  others  lie  in  relief  upon  the 
dark  embossed  cover.  She  repeats  in  a 
silver  voice  a  line  that  has  attracted  her 
fancy;  and  you  listen — or,  at  any  rate,  you 
seem  to  listen — with  your  eyes  now  on  the 
lips,  now  on  the  forehead,  and  now  on  the 
finger,  where  glitters  like  a  star,  the  mar 
riage  ring — little  gold  band,  at  which  she 
does  not  chafe,  that  tells  you — she  is  yours ! 
— Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all  that 
told  it !  The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look,  the 
heart,  tells  you  stronger  and  better,  that 
she  is  yours.  And  a  feeling  within,  where 
it  lies  you  know  not,  and  whence  it  comes 
you  know  not,  but  sweeping  over  heart  and 
brain,  like  a  fire-flood,  tells  you,  too,  that 
you  are  hers !  Irremediably  bound  as  Mas- 
singer's  Hortensio : 

I  am  subject  to  another's  will  and  can 
Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her! 

The  fire  is  warm  as  ever ;  what  length  of 
heat  in  this  hard  burning  anthracite!  It 
has  scarce  sunk  yet  to  the  second  bar  of  the 
grate,  though  the  clock  upon  the  church- 
tower  has  tolled  eleven. 


86  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

— Aye — mused  I,  gayly — such  a  heart 
does  not  grow  faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself 
in  idle  puffs  of  blaze,  it  does  not  become 
chilly  with  the  passing  years ;  but  it  gains 
and  grows  in  strength  and  heat  until  the 
fire  of  life  is  covered  over  with  the  ashes  of 
death.  Strong  or  hot  as  it  may  be  at  the 
first,  it  loses  nothing.  It  may  not,  indeed,  as 
time  advances,  throw  out,  like  the  coal  fire, 
when  new-lit,  jets  of  blue  sparkling  flame ; 
it  may  not  continue  to  bubble  and  gush  like 
a  fountain  at  its  source,  but  it  will  become 
a  strong  river  of  flowing  charities. 

Clitumnus  breaks  from  under  the  Tuscan 
mountains,  almost  a  flood ;  on  a  glorious 
spring  day  I  leaned  down  and  tasted  the 
water,  as  it  boiled  from  its  sources  ;  the  little 
temple  of  white  marble — the  mountain  sides 
gray  with  olive  orchards — the  white  streak 
of  road — the  tall  poplars  of  the  river  margin 
were  glistening  in  the  bright  Italian  sun 
light  around  me.  Later,  I  saw  it  when  it 
had  become  a  river — still  clear  and  strong, 
flowing  serenely  between  its  prairie  banks, 
on  which  the  white  cattle  of  the  valley 
browsed  ;  and  still  farther  down  I  welcomed 
it,  where  it  joins  the  Arno — flowing  slowly 
under  wooded  shores,  skirting  the  fair 
Florence  and  the  bounteous  fields  of  the 


ANTHRACITE  87 

bright  Cascino ;  gathering  strength  and  vol 
ume,  till  between  Pisa  and  Leghorn — in 
sight  of  the  wondrous  Leaning  Tower  and 
the  ship-masts  of  the  Tuscan  port — it  gave 
its  waters  to  its  life's  grave — the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now 
with  my  musings,  over  my  garret  grate,  and 
offered  a  flowing  image  to  bear  along  upon 
its  bosom  the  affections  that  were  grouping 
in  my  reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of 
the  fancy  that  can  set  the  objects  which  are 
closest  to  the  heart  far  down  the  lapse  of 
time.  Even  now,  as  the  fire  fades  slightly, 
and  sinks  slowly  toward  the  bar,  which  is 
the  dial  of  my  hours,  I  seem  to  see  that 
image  of  love  which  has  played  about  the 
fire-glow  of  my  grate — years  hence.  It  still 
covers  the  same  warm,  trustful,  religious 
heart.  Trials  have  tried  it ;  afflictions  have 
weighed  upon  it ;  danger  has  scared  it ;  and 
death  is  coming  near  to  subdue  it ;  but  still 
it  is  the  same. 

The  fingers  are  thinner ;  the  face  has  lines 
of  care  and  sorrow  crossing  each  other  in  a 
web-work  that  makes  the  golden  tissue  of 
humanity.  But  the  heart  is  fond  and 
steady ;  it  is  the  same  dear  heart,  the  same 
self-sacrificing  heart,  warming,  like  a  fire, 


88  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

all  around  it.  Affliction  has  tempered  joy ; 
and  joy  adorned  affliction.  Life  and  all  its 
troubles  have  become  distilled  into  an  holy 
incense,  rising  ever  from  your  fireside — an 
offering  to  your  household  gods. 

Your  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift 
determination,  your  impulsive  pride,  your 
deep  uttered  vows  to  win  a  name,  have  all 
sobered  into  affection — have  all  blended  into 
that  glow  of  feeling  which  finds  its  center, 
and  hope,  and  joy  in  HOME.  From  my  soul 
I  pity  him  whose  soul  does  not  leap  at  the 
mere  utterance  of  that  name. 

A  home ! — it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  ador 
able  phantom  which  sits  highest  on  the 
sunny  horizon  that  girdeth  life !  When 
shall  it  be  reached?  When  shall  it  cease  to 
be  a  glittering  day-dream,  and  become  fully 
and  fairly  yours  ? 

It  is  not  the  house,  though  that  may  have 
its  charms ;  nor  the  fields  carefully  tilled, 
and  streaked  with  your  own  footpaths — nor 
the  trees,  though  their  shadow  be  to  you  like 
that  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land — nor 
yet  is  it  the  fireside,  with  its  sweet  blaze- 
play — nor  the  pictures  which  tell  of  loved 
ones,  nor  the  cherished  books — but  more  far 
than  all  these — it  is  the  PRESENCE.  The 
Lares  of  your  worship  are  there ;  the  altar 


ANTHRACITE  89 

of  your  confidence  there;  the  end  of  your 
worldly  faith  is  there;  and  adorning  it  all, 
and  sending  your  blood  in  passionate  flow, 
is  the  ecstasy  of  the  conviction,  that  there 
at  least  you  are  beloved ;  that  there  you 
are  understood ;  that  there  your  errors  will 
meet  ever  with  gentlest  forgiveness ;  that 
there  your  troubles  will  be  smiled  away ; 
that  there  you  may  unburden  your  soul, 
fearless  of  harsh,  unsympathizing  ears  ;  and 
that  there  you  may  be  entirely  and  joyfully 
— yourself ! 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mold — and 
I  have  seen  such  even  in  the  disguise  of 
women — who  will  reckon  these  feelings  pu 
ling  sentiment.  God  pity  them! — as  they 
have  need  of  pity. 

— That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm,  lov 
ing,  joyful,  is  there  still;  it  goes  not,  how 
ever  my  spirit  tosses,  because  my  wish,  and 
every  will,  keep  it  there,  unerring. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yel 
low  and  warm  as  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in  its 
best  age,  and  that  age  is  ripeness. 

A  ripe  heart ! — now  I  know  what  Words 
worth  meant  when  he  said : 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 


9<D  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

The  town  clock  is  striking  midnight.  The 
cold  of  the  night-wind  is  urging  its  way  in 
at  the  door  and  window-crevice ;  the  fire  has 
sunk  almost  to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate. 
Still  my  dream  tires  not,  but  wraps  fondly 
round  that  image — now  in  the  far-off,  chill 
ing  mists  of  age,  growing  sainted.  Love 
has  blended  into  reverence ;  passion  has  sub 
sided  into  joyous  content. 

— And  what  if  age  comes,  said  I,  in  a 
new  flush  of  excitation — what  else  proves 
the  wine?  W7hat  else  gives  inner  strength, 
and  knowledge,  and  a  steady  pilot-hand,  to 
steer  your  boat  out  boldly  upon  that  shore 
less  sea,  where  the  river  of  life  is  running? 
Let  the  white  ashes  gather;  let  the  silver 
hair  lie  where  lay  the  auburn ;  let  the  eye 
gleam  farther  back,  and  dimmer ;  it  is  but 
retreating  toward  the  pure  sky-depths,  an 
usher  to  the  land  where  you  will  follow 
after. 

It  is  quite  cold,  and  I  take  away  the 
screen  altogether ;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet, 
but  presently  the  coal  slips  down  below  the 
third  bar,  with  a  rumbling  sound — like  that 
of  coarse  gravel  falling  into  a  new-dug 
grave. 

— She  is  gone ! 

Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly, 


ANTHRACITE  QI 

generously,  while  there  was  mortality  to 
kindle  it;  eternity  will  surely  kindle  it  bet 
ter. 

— Tears  indeed;  but  they  are  tears  of 
thanksgiving,  of  resignation,  and  of  hope ! 

And  the  eyes,  full  of  those  tears  which 
ministering  angels  bestow,  climb  with  quick 
vision  upon  the  angelic  ladder,  and  open 
upon  the  futurity  where  she  has  entered, 
and  upon  the  country  which  she  enjoys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life  are 
dead. 

You  are  in  the  death  chamber  of  life ; 
but  you  are  also  in  the  death  chamber  of 
care.  The  world  seems  sliding  backward ; 
and  hope  and  you  are  sliding  forward.  The 
clouds,  the  agonies,  the  vain  expectancies, 
the  braggart  noise,  and  fears,  now  vanish 
behind  the  curtain  of  the  past,  and  of  the 
night.  They  roll  from  your  soul  like  a 
load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  ending 
present,  you  reach  out  your  prayerful  hands 
toward  that  boundless  future,  where  God's 
eye  lifts  over  the  horizon,  like  sunrise  on  the 
ocean.  Do  you  recognize  it  as  an  earnest 
of  something  better?  Aye,  if  the  heart  has 
been  pure  and  steady — burning  like  my  fire 
— it  has  learned  it  without  seeming  to  learn. 


92  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

Faith  has  grown  upon  it,  as  the  blossom 
grows  upon  the  bud,  or  the  flower  upon  the 
slow-lifting  stalk. 

Cares  can  not  come  into  the  dreamland 
where  I  live.  They  sink  with  the  dying 
street  noise,  and  vanish  with  the  embers  of 
my  fire.  Even  ambition,  with  its  hot  and 
shifting  flame,  is  all  gone  out.  The  heart 
in  the  dimness  of  the  fading  fire-glow  is 
all  itself.  The  memory  of  what  good  things 
have  come  over  it  in  the  troubled  youth- 
life,  bear  it  up ;  and  hope  and  faith  bear  it 
on.  There  is  no  extravagant  pulse-glow ; 
there  is  no  mad  fever  of  the  brain ;  but 
only  the  soul,  forgetting — for  once — all, 
save  its  destinies  and  its  capacities  for  good. 
And  it  mounts  higher  and  higher  on  these 
wings  of  thought ;  and  hope  burns  stronger 
and  stronger  out  of  the  ashes  of  decaying 
life,  until  the  sharp  edge  of  the  grave  seems 
but  a  foot-scraper  at  the  wicket  of  Elysium ! 

But  what  is  paper ;  and  what  are  words  ? 
Vain  things  !  The  soul  leaves  them  behind ; 
the  pen  staggers  like  a  starveling  cripple ; 
and  your  heart  is  leaving  it,  a  whole  length 
of  the  life-course  behind.  The  soul's  mortal 
longings — its  poor  baffled  hopes,  are  dim 
now  in  the  light  of  those  infinite  longings, 
which  spread  over  it  soft  and  holy  as  day- 


ANTHRACITE  93 

dawn.  Eternity  has  stretched  a  corner  of 
its  mantle  toward  you,  and  the  breath  of  its 
waving  fringe  is  like  a  gale  of  Araby. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of 
the  cinders  within  my  grate,  startled  me, 
and  dragged  back  my  fancy  from  my  flower 
chase,  beyond  the  Phlegethon,  to  the  white 
ashes  that  were  now  thick  all  over  the  dark 
ened  coals. 

— And  this — mused  I — is  only  a  bache 
lor-dream  about  a  pure  and  loving  heart ! 
And  to-morrow  comes  cankerous  life  again 
— is  it  wished  for  ?  Or  if  not  wished  for,  is 
the  not  wishing  wicked  ? 

Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  they 
can?  Are  we  not,  after  all,  poor  groveling 
mortals,  tied  to  earth,  and  to  each  other; 
are  there  not  sympathies,  and  hopes,  and 
affections  which  can  only  find  their  issue 
and  blessing  in  fellow  absorption?  Does 
not  the  heart,  steady  and  pure,  as  it  may  be, 
and  mounting  on  soul  nights  often  as  it 
dare,  want  a  human  sympathy,  perfectly  in 
dulged,  to  make  it  healthful?  Is  there  not 
a  fount  of  love  for  this  world  as  there  is  a 
fount  of  love  for  the  other  ?  Is  there  not  a 
certain  store  of  tenderness  cooped  in  this 
heart,  which  must,  and  will  be  lavished,  be 
fore  the  end  comes  ?  Does  it  not  plead  with 


94  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

the  judgment,  and  make  issue  with  pru 
dence,  year  after  year?  Does  it  not  dog 
your  steps  all  through  your  social  pilgrim 
age,  setting  up  its  claims  in  forms  fresh 
and  odorous  as  new-blown  heath  bells,  say 
ing — come  away  from  the  heartless,  the  fac 
titious,  the  vain,  and  measure  your  heart 
not  by  its  constraints,  but  by  its  fullness, 
and  by  its  depth!  Let  it  run,  and  be  joy 
ous! 

Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your 
harsh  night-dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend, 
whispering — be  satisfied ;  keep  your  heart 
from  running  over ;  bridle  those  affections ; 
there  is  nothing  worth  loving? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over 
your  spirit  of  reverie  like  a  beckoning  angel, 
crowned  with  halo,  saying — hope  on,  hope 
ever ;  the  heart  and  I  are  kindred ;  our  mis 
sion  will  be  fulfilled ;  nature  shall  accom 
plish  its  purpose;  the  soul  shall  have  its 
paradise  ? 

— I  threw  myself  upon  my  bed :  and  as 
my  thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp 
business  of  the  morrow,  my  reverie,  and  its 
glowing  images,  that  made  my  heart  bound, 
swept  away  like  those  fleecy  rain  clouds  of 
August,  on  which  the  sun  paints  rainbows 


ANTHRACITE 


95 


— driving   southward,  by  the   cool,   rising 
wind  from  the  north. 

— I  wonder — thought  I,  as  I  dropped 
asleep — i£  a  married  man  with  his  senti 
ment  made  actual  is,  after  all,  as  happy  as 
we  poor  fellows,  in  our  dreams  ? 


THIRD  REVERIE 


A  CIGAR  THREE  TIMES   LIGHTED 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR 


f 


I  DO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an 
Aunt  Tabithy  who  could  abide  cigars.  My 
Aunt  Tabithy  hated  them  with  a  peculiar 
hatred.  She  was  not  only  insensible  to  the 
rich  flavor  of  a  fresh  rolling  volume  of 
smoke,  but  she  could  not  so  much  as  toler 
ate  the  sight  of  the  rich  russet  color  of  an 
Havana-labeled  box.  It  put  her  out  of 
all  conceit  with  Guava  jelly,  to  find  it  ad 
vertised  in  the  same  tongue,  and  with  the 
same  Cuban  coarseness  of  design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to 
her  the  other  morning — "there  is  very  much 
that  is  good  in  a  cigar." 

99 


IOO  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

My  aunt,  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her 
head,  and  with  it,  her  curls — done  up  in 
paper. 

"It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued 
I,  puffing. 

"It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 

"It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I ;  "and  a 
most  pleasant  soother  of  disturbed  feel 
ings  ;  and  a  capital  companion ;  and  a  com 
forter — "  and  I  stopped  to  puff. 

"You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination," 
said  my  aunt — "and  you  ought  to  be — " 
and  she  stopped  to  put  up  one  of  her  curls, 
which,  with  the  energy  of  her  gesticulation, 
had  fallen  out  of  its  place. 

"It  suggests  quiet  thoughts" — continued 
I — "and  makes  a  man  meditative  ;  and  gives 
a  current  to  his  habits  of  contemplation — 
as  I  can  show  you,"  said  I,  warming  with 
the  theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers — with 
the  pin  in  her  mouth — gave  a  most  incredu 
lous  shrug. 

"Aunt  Tabithy" — said  I,  and  gave  two 
or  three  violent,  consecutive  puffs — "Aunt 
Tabithy,  I  can  make  up  such  a  series  of  re 
flections  out  of  my  cigar  as  would  do  your 
heart  good  to  listen  to!" 


f 


OVER   HIS   CIGAR  IOI 

"About  what,  pray?"  said  my  aunt,  con 
temptuously. 

"About  love,"  said  I,  "which  is  easy 
enough  lighted,  but  wants  constancy  to 
keep  it  in  a  glow — or  about  matrimony, 
which  has  a  great  deal  of  fire  in  the  begin 
ning,  but  it  is  a  fire  that  consumes  all  that 
feeds  the  blaze — or  about  life,"  continued 
I,  earnestly — "which  at  the  first  is  fresh 
and  odorous,  but  ends  shortly  in  a  withered 
cinder  that  is  fit  only  for  the  ground." 

My  aunt,  who  was  forty  and  unmarried, 
finished  her  curl  with  a  flip  of  the  fingers — 
resumed  her  hold  of  the  broom,  and  leaned 
her  chin  upon  one  end  of  it  with  an  ex 
pression  of  some  wonder,  some  curiosity, 
and  a  great  deal  of  expectation. 

I  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been  a 
little  less  curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a  little 
less  communicative;  for,  though  it  was  all 
honestly  said  on  my  part,  yet  my  contempla 
tions  bore  that  vague,  shadowy,  and  de 
licious  sweetness  that  it  seemed  impossible 
to  put  them  into  words — least  of  all,  at  the 
bidding  of  an  old  lady  leaning  on  a  broom- 
handle. 

"Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy,"  said  I — 
"a  good  dinner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar, 


IO2  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

and  I  will  serve  you  such  a  sunshiny  sheet 
of  reverie,  all  twisted  out  of  the  smoke,  as 

fwill  make  your  kind  old  heart  ache !" 
Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either 
of  my  mention  of  the  dinner,   or  of  the 
smoke,   or   of   the   old   heart,   commenced 
sweeping  furiously. 

"If  I  do  not," — continued  I,  anxious  to 
appease  her — "if  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy,  it 
shall  be  my  last  cigar  (Aunt  Tabithy 
stopped  sweeping)  ;  and  all  my  tobacco 
money  (Aunt  Tabithy  drew  near  me),  shall 
go  to  buy  ribbons  for  my  most  respectable 
and  worthy  Aunt  Tabithy;  and  a  kinder 
person  could  not  have  them ;  or  one,"  con 
tinued  I,  with  a  generous  puff,  "whom  they 
would  more  adorn." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  gave  me  a  half-playful 
— half-thankful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was 
struck ;  my  part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On 
her  part,  Aunt  Tabithy  was  to  allow  me,  in 
case  of  my  success,  an  evening  cigar  unmo 
lested,  upon  the  front  porch,  underneath  her 
favorite  rose-tree.  It  was  concluded,  I  say, 
as  I  sat ;  the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising 
gracefully  around  my  Aunt  Tabithy's  curls  ; 
our  right  hands  joined ;  my  left  was  holding 


OVER    HIS   CIGAR 


103 


my  cigar,  while  in  hers,  was  tightly  grasped 
— her  broom-stick. 

And   this    reverie,   to   make   the   matter 
short,  is  what  came  of  the  contract. 


C 


r-. 


LIGHTED   WITH    A   COAL 

I  TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and  set 
ting  the  end  of  my  cigar  against  it,  puff — 
and  puff  again ;  but  there  is  no  smoke. 
There  is  very  little  hope  of  lighting  from 
a  dead  coal — no  more  hope,  thought  I, 
than  of  kindling  one's  heart  into  flame  by 
contact  with  a  dead  heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and  life  ; 
and  I  sat  for  a  moment,  thinking — even  be 
fore  I  lit  my  cigar — on  the  vanity  and  folly 
of  those  poor,  purblind  fellows,  who  go  on 
puffing  for  half  a  lifetime,  against  dead 
coals.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Heaven,  in  its 
mercy,  has  made  their  senses  so  obtuse  that 
they  know  not  when  their  souls  are  in  a 
flame,  or  when  they  are  dead.  I  can  im- 
105 


IO6  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

agine  none  but  the  most  moderate  satisfac 
tion,  in  continuing  to  love  what  has  got  no 
ember  of  love  within  it.  The  Italians  have 
a  very  sensible  sort  of  proverb — amare,  e 
non  essere  amato,  e  tempo  perduto — to  love, 
and  not  be  loved,  is  time  lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging 
down  a  coal  that  has  no  life  in  it.  And  it 
seemed  to  me — and  may  Heaven  pardon  the 
ill-nature  that  belongs  to  the  thought — that 
there  would  be  much  of  the  same  kind  of 
satisfaction  in  dashing  from  you  a  luke 
warm  creature  covered  over  with  the  yellow 
ashes  of  old  combustion  that,  with  ever  so 
much  attention,  and  the  nearest  approach  of 
the  lips,  never  shows  signs  of  fire.  May 
Heaven  forgive  me  again,  but  I  should  long 
to  break  away,  though  the  marriage  bonds 
held  me,  and  see  what  liveliness  was  to  be 
found  elsewhere. 

I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine 
try  to  grow  up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it 
shoots  out  its  tendrils  in  all  directions,  seek 
ing  for  some  crevice  by  which  to  fasten  and 
to  climb — looking  now  above  and  now  be 
low — twining  upon  itself — reaching  farther 
up,  but,  after  all,  finding  no  good  foothold, 
and  falling  away  as  if  in  despair.  But  na 
ture  is  not  unkind ;  twining  things  were 


V 


LIGHTED   WITH    A   COAL  IO/ 

<nade  to  twine.  The  longing  tendrils  take 
new  strength  in  the  sunshine,  and  in  the 
showers,  and  shoot  out  toward  some  hos 
pitable  trunk.  They  fasten  easily  to  the 
kindly  roughness  of  the  bark,  and  stretch 
up,  dragging  after  them  the  vine,  which,  by 
and  by,  from  the  topmost  bough,  will  nod 
its  blossoms  over  at  the  marble  wall,  that 
refused  it  succor,  as  if  it  said — stand  there 
in  your  pride,  cold,  white  wall !  we,  the  tree 
and  I,  are  kindred,  it  the  helper,  and  I  the 
helped !  and  bound  fast  together,  we  riot  in 
the  sunshine  and  in  gladness. 

The  thought  of  this  image  made  me 
search  for  a  new  coal  that  should  have  some 
brightness  in  it.  There  may  be  a  white  ash 
over  it  indeed ;  as  you  will  find  tender  feel 
ings  covered  with  the  mask  of  courtesy,  or 
with  the  veil  of  fear ;  but  with  a  breath  it 
all  flies  off,  and  exposes  the  heat  and  the 
glow  that  you  are  seeking. 

At  the  first  touch  the  delicate  edges  of 
the  cigar  crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke  rises 
— doubtfully  for  a  while,  and  with  a  coy  de 
lay  ;  but  after  a  hearty  respiration  or  two  it 
grows  strong,  and  my  cigar  is  fairly  lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke,  and  of 
the  fragrant  leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has  a 
bloom  about  it  that  you  wish  might  last. 


IO8  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

It  is  like  your  first  love — fresh,  genial  and 
rapturous.  Like  that,  it  fills  up  all  the  crav 
ing  of  your  soul ;  and  the  light,  blue  wreaths 
of  smoke,  like  the  roseate  clouds  that  hang 
around  the  morning  of  your  heart-life,  cut 
you  off  from  the  chill  atmosphere  of  mere 
worldly  companionship,  and  make  a  gor 
geous  firmament  for  your  fancy  to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later  and 
manlier  passions,  into  which  judgment  must 
be  thrusting  its  cold  tones,  and  when  all  the 
sweet  tumult  of  your  heart  has  mellowed 
into  the  sober  ripeness  of  affection.  But  I 
mean  that  boyish  burning,  which  belongs 
to  every  poor  mortal's  lifetime,  and  which 
bewilders  him  with  the  thought  that  he  has 
reached  the  highest  point  of  human  joy  be 
fore  he  has  tasted  any  of  that  bitterness 
from  which  alone  our  highest  human  joys 
have  sprung.  I  mean  the  time  when  you 
cut  initials  with  your  jack-knife  on  the 
smooth  bark  of  beech  trees ;  and  went  mop 
ing  under  the  long  shadows  at  sunset ;  and 
thought  Louise  the  prettiest  name  in  the 
wide  world ;  and  picked  flowers  to  leave  at 
her  door  ;  and  stole  out  at  night  to  watch  the 
light  in  her  window ;  and  read  such  novels 
as  those  about  Helen  Mar,  or  Charlotte, 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    COAL 

to  give  some  adequate  expression  to  your 
agonized  feelings. 

At  such  a  stage  you  are  quite  certain  that 
you  are  deeply  and  madly  in  love ;  you  per 
sist  in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth.  You 
would  like  to  meet  the  individual  who  dared 
to  doubt  it. 

You  think  she  has  got  the  tidiest  and 
jauntiest  little  figure  that  ever  was  seen. 
You  think  back  upon  some  time  when,  in 
your  games  of  forfeit,  you  gained  a  kiss 
from  those  lips ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the  kiss 
was  hanging  on  you  yet  and  warming  you 
all  over.  And  then,  again,  it  seems  so 
strange  that  your  lips  did  really  touch  hers ! 
You  half  question  if  it  could  have  been 
actually  so — and  how  you  could  have 
dared — and  you  wonder  if  you  would  have 
courage  to  do  the  same  thing  again? — and 
upon  second  thought  are  quite  sure  you 
would — and  snap  your  ringers  at  the 
thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear; 
and  in  the  schoolroom,  when  the  hat  is 
hung  up — what  curls — golden  curls,  worth 
a  hundred  Golcondas !  How  bravely  you 
study  the  top  lines  of  the  spelling-book  that 
your  eyes  may  run  over  the  edge  of  the 


IIO  REVERIES    OF   A    BACHELOR 

cover,  without  the  schoolmaster's  notice, 
and  feast  upon  her  ! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run 
away  with  her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda, 
in  the  Children  of  the  Abbey — and  then 
you  might  ride  up  on  a  splendid  black  horse 
and  draw  a  pistol,  or  blunderbuss,  and  shoot 
the  villains,  and  carry  her  back,  all  in  tears, 
fainting  and  languishing  upon  your  shoul 
der — and  have  her  father  (who  is  judge  of 
the  county  court)  take  your  hand  in  both 
of  his  and  make  some  eloquent  remarks. 
A  great  many  such  recaptures  you  run  over 
in  your  mind  and  think  how  delightful  it 
would  be  to  peril  your  life,  either  by  flood, 
or  fire — to  cut  off  your  arm,  or  your  head, 
or  any  such  trifle — for  your  dear  Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more 
joyous  in  life  than  to  live  with  her  in  some 
old  castle,  very  far  away  from  steamboats 
and  post-offices,  and  pick  wild  geraniums 
for  her  hair,  and  read  poetry  with  her  un 
der  the  shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And 
you  would  have  such  a  charming  boudoir 
in  some  corner  of  the  old  ruin,  with  a  harp 
in  it,  and  books  bound  in  gilt,  with  Cupids 
on  the  cover,  and  such  a  fairy  couch,  with 
curtains  hung — as  you  have  seen  them  hung 


LIGHTED   WITH    A   COAL  III 

in  some  illustrated  Arabian  stories — upon  a 
pair  of  carved  doves. 

And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it,  you 
turn  it  off,  perhaps,  with  saying — "It  isn't 
so ;"  but  afterward,  in  your  chamber,  or  un 
der  the  tree  where  you  have  cut  her  name, 
you  take  Heaven  to  witness  that  it  is  so; 
and  think — what  a  cold  world  it  is,  to  be  so 
careless  about  such  holy  emotions !  You  per 
fectly  hate  a  certain  stout  boy  in  a  green 
jacket,  who  is  forever  twitting  you,  and 
calling  her  names ;  but  when  some  old 
maiden  aunt  teases  you  in  her  kind,  gentle 
way,  you  bear  it  very  proudly;  and  with  a 
feeling  as  if  you  could  bear  a  great  deal 
more  for  her  sake.  And  when  the  minister 
reads  off  marriage  announcements  in  the 
church,  you  think  how  it  will  sound  one  of 
these  days,  to  have  your  name,  and  hers, 
read  from  the  pulpit — and  how  the  people 
will  look  at  you,  and  how  prettily  she  will 
blush ;  and  how  poor  little  Dick,  who  you 
know  loves  her,  but  is  afraid  to  say  so,  will 
squirm  upon  his  bench. 

— Heigho !  mused  I — as  the  blue  smoke 
rolled  up  around  my  head — these  first  kin 
dlings  of  the  love  that  is  in  one,  are  very 
pleasant !  but  will  they  last  ? 


112  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 


You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her 
dress,  as  she  stirs  about  the  room.  It  is  bet 
ter  music  than  grown-up  ladies  will  make 
upon  all  their  harpischords  in  the  years  that 
are  to  come.  But  this,  thank  Heaven,  you 
do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  foot-mark, 
on  your  way  to  the  school ;  and  what  a  dear 
little  foot-mark  it  is !  And  from  that  single 
point,  if  she  be  out  of  your  sight  for  days, 
you  conjure  up  the  whole  image — the  elastic 
lithe  little  figure — the  springy  step — the 
dotted  muslin  so  light  and  flowing — the  silk 
kerchief,  with  its  most  tempting  fringe 
playing  upon  the  clear  white  of  her  throat 
— how  you  envy  that  fringe !  And  her  chin 
is  as  round  as  a  peach — and  the  lips — such 
lips !  and  you  sigh,  and  hang  your  head, 
and  wonder  when  you  shall  see  her  again ! 

You  would  like  to  write  her  a  letter ;  but 
then  people  would  talk  so  coldly  about  it; 
and  besides  you  are  not  quite  sure  you 
could  write  such  billets  as  Thaddeus  of 
Warsaw  used  to  write;  and  anything  less 
warm  or  elegant  would  not  do  at  all.  You 
talk  about  this  one,  or  that  one,  whom  they 
call  pretty,  in  the  coolest  way  in  the  world ; 
you  see  very  little  of  their  prettiness ;  they 
are  good  girls  to  be  sure;  and  you  hope 


LIGHTED   WITH    A   COAL  113 

they  will  get  good  husbands  some  day  or 
other;  but  it  is  not  a  matter  that  concerns 
you  very  much.  They  do  not  live  in  your 
world  of  romance;  they  are  not  the  angels 
of  that  sky  which  your  heart  makes  rosy, 
and  to  which  I  have  likened  the  blue  waves 
of  this  rolling  smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others ; 
you  can  smile — as  you  think — very  gra 
ciously;  you  can  say  laughingly  that  you 
are  deeply  in  love  with  them,  and  think  it  a 
most  capital  joke;  you  can  touch  their 
hands,  or  steal  a  kiss  from  them  in  your 
games,  most  imperturbably — they  are  very 
dead  coals. 

But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  When 
you  take  the  name  on  your  lip,  it  seems 
somehow,  to  be  made  of  different  materials 
from  the  rest ;  you  cannot  half  so  easily  sep 
arate  it  into  letters ;  write  it,  indeed  you 
can ;  for  you  have  had  practice — very  much 
private  practice — on  odd  scraps  of  paper, 
and  on  the  fly-leaves  of  geographies,  and 
of  your  natural  philosophy.  You  know 
perfectly  well  how  it  looks ;  it  seems  to  be 
written,  indeed,  somewhere  behind  your 
eyes;  and  in  such  happy  position  with  re 
spect  to  the  optic  nerve,  that  you  see  it  all 
the  time,  though  you  are  looking  in  an  op- 


114  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

posite  direction ;  and  so  distinctly,  that  you 
have  great  fears  lest  people  looking  into 
your  eyes  should  see  it  too ! 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate  name 
to  handle  than  most  that  you  know  of. 
Though  it  is  very  cool,  and  pleasant  on  the 
brain,  it  is  very  hot,  and  difficult  to  manage 
on  the  lip.  It  is  not,  as  your  schoolmaster 
would  say — a  name,  so  much  as  it  is  an 
idea — not  a  noun,  but  a  verb — an  active, 
and  transitive  verb;  and  yet  a  most  irregu 
lar  verb,  wanting  the  passive  voice. 

It  is  something  against  your  schoolmas 
ter's  doctrine,  to  find  warmth  in  the  moon 
light  ;  but  with  that  soft  hand — it  is  very 
soft — lying  within  your  arm,  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  warmth,  whatever  the  philos 
ophers  may  say,  even  in  pale  moonlight. 
The  beams,  too,  breed  sympathies,  very 
close-running  sympathies — not  talked  about 
in  the  chapters  on  optics,  and  altogether  too 
fine  for  language.  And  under  their  influ 
ence,  you  retain  the  little  hand,  that  you 
had  not  dared  retain  so  long  before;  and 
her  struggle  to  recover  it — if  indeed  it  be 
a  struggle — is  infinitely  less  than  it  was — 
nay,  it  is  a  kind  of  struggle,  not  so  much 
against  you,  as  between  gladness  and  mod 
esty.  It  makes  you  as  bold  as  a  lion;  and 


LIGHTED   WITH    A   COAL  11 


the  feeble  hand,  like  a  poor  lamb  in  the 
lion's  clutch,  is  powerless,  and  very  meek 

—  and  failing  of  escape,  it  will  sue  for  gen 
tle  treatment;  and   will   meet  your  warm 
promise,  with  a  kind  of  grateful  pressure, 
that  is  but  half  acknowledged,  by  the  hand 
that  makes  it. 

My  cigar  is  burning  with  wondrous  free- 
ness;  and  from  the  smoke  flash  forth  im 
ages  bright  and  quick  as  lightning  —  with 
no  thunder,  but  the  thunder  of  the  pulse. 
But  will  it  all  last?  Damp  will  deaden  the 
fire  of  a  cigar  ;  and  there  are  hellish  damps 

—  alas,  too  many  —  that  will  deaden  the  early 
blazing  of  the  heart. 

She  is  pretty  —  growing  prettier  to  your 
eye,  the  more  you  look  upon  her,  and  pret 
tier  to  your  ear,  the  more  you  listen  to  her. 
But  you  wonder  who  the  tall  boy  was,  whom 
you  saw  walking  with  her,  two  days  ago? 
He  was  not  a  bad-looking  boy  ;  on  the  con 
trary  you  think  (with  a  grit  of  your  teeth) 
that  he  was  infernally  handsome!  You 
look  at  him  very  shyly,  and  very  closely, 
when  you  pass  him;  and  turn  to  see  how 
he  walks,  and  how  to  measure  his  shoul 
ders,  and  are  quite  disgusted  with  the  very 
modest  and  gentlemanly  way,  with  which 
he  carries  himself.  You  think  you  would 


Il6  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

like  to  have  a  fisticuff  with  him,  if  you  were 
only  sure  of  having  the  best  of  it.  You 
sound  the  neighborhood  coyly,  to  find  out 
who  the  strange  boy  is:  and  are  half 
ashamed  of  yourself  for  doing  it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to  send 
her  and  tie  it  with  a  green  ribbon,  and  love 
knot — and  get  a  little  rose-bud  in  acknowl 
edgment.  That  day,  you  pass  the  tall  boy 
with  a  very  patronizing  look;  and  wonder 
if  he  would  not  like  to  have  a  sail  in  your 
boat? 

But  by  and  by  you  find  the  tall  boy  walk 
ing  with  her  again ;  and  she  looks  sideways 
at  him,  and  with  a  kind  of  grown-up  air, 
that  makes  you  feel  very  boylike,  and  hum 
ble  and  furious.  And  you  look  daggers  at 
him  when  you  pass ;  and  touch  your  cap  to 
her,  with  quite  uncommon  dignity ;  and 
wonder  if  he  is  not  sorry,  and  does  not 
feel  very  badly,  to  have  got  such  a  look 
from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet 
her  alone ;  and  the  sight  of  her  makes  your 
face  wear  a  genial,  sunny  air ;  and  you  talk 
a  little  sadly  about  your  fears  and  your 
jealousies  ;  she  seems  a  little  sad,  and  a  little 
glad,  together;  and  is  sorry  she  has  made 
you  feel  badly — and  you  are  sorry  too.  And 


. 


LIGHTED   WITH   A   COAL  117 

with  this  pleasant  twin  sorrow,  you  are 
knit  together  again — closer  than  ever.  That 
one  little  tear  of  hers  has  been  worth  more 
to  you  than  a  thousand  smiles.  Now  you 
love  her  madly ;  you  could  swear  it — swear 
it  to  her,  or  swear  it  to  the  universe.  You 
even  say  as  much  to  some  kind  old  friend 
at  nightfall;  but  your  mention  of  her  is 
tremulous  and  joyful — with  a  kind  of  bound 
in  your  speech,  as  if  the  heart  worked  too 
quick  for  the  tongue ;  and  as  if  the  lips 
were  ashamed  to  be  passing  over  such  se 
crets  of  the  soul,  to  the  mere  sense  of  hear 
ing.  At  this  stage  you  can  not  trust  your 
self  to  speak  her  praises  or  if  you  venture, 
the  expletives  fly  away  with  your  thought 
before  you  can  chain  it  into  language ;  and 
your  speech,  at  your  best  endeavor,  is  but 
a  succession  of  broken  superlatives  that  you 
are  ashamed  of.  You  strain  for  language 
that  will  scald  the  thought  of  her ;  but  hot 
as  you  can  make  it,  it  falls  back  upon  your 
heated  fancy  like  a  cold  shower. 

Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very 
fast ;  and  the  matter  it  feeds  fastest  on  is — 
judgment;  and  with  judgment  gone,  there 
is  room  for  jealousy  to  creep  in.  You  grow 
petulant  at  another  sight  of  that  tall  boy; 
and  the  one  tear,  which  cured  your  first 


Il8  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

petulance,  will  not  cure  it  now.  You  let  a 
little  of  your  fever  break  out  in  speech — a 
speech  which  you  go  home  to  mourn  over. 
But  she  knows  nothing  of  the  mourning, 
while  she  knows  very  much  of  the  anger. 
Vain  tears  are  very  apt  to  breed  pride ;  and 
when  you  go  again  with  your  petulance, 
you  will  find  your  rosy-lipped  girl  taking 
her  first  studies  in  dignity. 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say — poor  fool, 
you  are  feeding  on  what  your  disease  loves 
best !  You  wonder  if  she  is  not  sighing  for 
your  return — and  if  your  name  is  not  run 
ning  in  her  thought — and  if  tears  of  regret 
are  not  moistening  those  sweet  eyes. 

— And  wondering  thus,  you  stroll  mood 
ily  and  hopefully  toward  her  father's  home  ; 
you  pass  the  door  once — twice ;  you  loiter 
under  the  shade  of  an  old  tree,  where  you 
have  sometimes  bid  her  adieu ;  your  old 
fondness  is  struggling  with  your  pride,  and 
has  almost  made  the  mastery;  but  in  the 
very  moment  of  victory,  you  see  yonder 
your  hated  rival,  and  beside  him,  looking 
very  gleeful  and  happy — your  perfidious 
Louise. 

How  quickly  you  throw  off  the  marks  of 
your  struggle,  and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of 
boyhood ;  and  what  a  dextrous  handling  to 


LIGHTED   WITH    A    COAL  I IQ 

your  knife,  and  what  a  wonderful  keenness 
to  the  edge,  as  you  cut  away  from  the  bark 
of  the  beech  tree  all  trace  of  her  name !  Still 
there  is  a  little  silent  relenting,  and  a  few 
tears  at  night,  and  a  little  tremor  of  the 
hand,  as  you  tear  out — the  next  day — every 
fly-leaf  that  bears  her  name.  But  at  sight  of 
your  rival — looking  so  jaunty,  and  in  such 
capital  spirits — you  put  on  the  proud  man 
again.  You  may  meet  her,  but  you  say  noth 
ing  of  your  struggles — oh,  no,  not  one  word 
of  that ! — but  you  talk  with  amazing  rapid 
ity  about  your  games,  or  what  not ;  and  you 
never — never  give  her  another  peep  into 
your  boyish  heart ! 

For  a  week  you  do  not  see  her — nor  for  a 
month — nor  two  months — nor  three. 

— Puff — puff  once  more ;  there  is  only  a 
little  nauseous  smoke;  and  now — my  cigar 
is  gone  out  altogether.  I  must  light  again. 


<L 


WITH   A    WISP   OF    PAPER 

THERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a  cigar, 
when  once  gone  out ;  they  must  needs  have 
plenty  more.  But  nobody  that  I  ever  heard 
of  keeps  a  cedar  box  of  hearts,  labeled  at 
Havana.  Alas,  there  is  but  one  to  light ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit  be  lighted  again? 
Authority  on  this  point  is  worth  something ; 
yet  it  should  be  impartial  authority.  I  should 
be  loth  to  take  in  evidence,  for  the  fact — 
however  it  might  tally  with  my  hope — the 
affidavit  of  some  rakish  old  widower,  who 
had  cast  his  weeds  before  the  grass  had 
started  on  the  mound  of  his  affliction ;  and 
I  should  be  as  slow  to  take,  in  way  of  re 
butting  testimony,  the  oath  of  any  sweet 
young  girl,  just  becoming  conscious  of  her 
heart's  existence — by  its  loss. 

121 


122  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

Very  much,  it  seems  to  me,  depends  upon 
the  quality  of  the  fire :  and  I  can  easily  con 
ceive  of  one  so  pure,  so  constant,  so  exhaust 
ing,  that  if  it  were  once  gone  out,  whether 
in  the  chills  of  death  or  under  the  blasts  of 
pitiless  fortune,  there  would  be  no  rekin 
dling,  simply  because  there  would  be  noth 
ing  left  to  kindle.  And  I  can  imagine,  too,  a 
fire  so  earnest  and  so  true  that,  whatever 
malice  might  urge,  or  a  devilish  ingenuity 
devise,  there  could  be  no  other  found,  high 
or  low,  far  or  near,  which  should  not  so 
contrast  with  the  first  as  to  make  it  seem 
cold  as  ice. 

I  remember  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's, 
the  hero  is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress ;  he  is 
worked  upon  by  slanders  to  quit  her  alto 
gether — though  he  has  loved  and  does  still 
love  passionately.  She  bids  him  adieu,  with 
large  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes  (and  I 
lay  down  my  cigar  to  recite  it  aloud,  fancy 
ing  all  the  while,  with  a  varlet  impudence, 
that  some  Abstemia  is  repeating  it  to  me)  : 

— Farewell,  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love;  if  you  ever  marry 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife;  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion;  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 


WITH    A    WISP   OF    PAPER  123 

And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  loved  you. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice, 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me 
Imagine  that  you  see  me  thin,  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  path  with  flowers  ! 

— Poor  Abstemia!  Lorenzo  never  could 
find  such  another — there  never  could  be  such 
another,  for  such  Lorenzo. 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old 
fire  be  utterly  gone;  and  can  any  truly- 
lighted  soul  ever  grow  cold,  except  the  grave 
cover  it  ?  The  poets  all  say  no :  Othello,  had 
he  lived  a  thousand  years,  would  not  have 
loved  again — nor  Desdemona — nor  Andro 
mache —  nor  Medea  —  nor  Ulysses  —  nor 
Hamlet.  But  in  the  cool  wreaths  of  the 
pleasant  smoke  let  us  see  what  truth  is  in  the 
poets. 

— What  is  love — mused  I — at  the  first, 
but  a  mere  fancy  ?  There  is  a  prettiness  that 
your  soul  cleaves  to,  as  your  eye  to  a  pleas 
ant  flower,  or  your  ear  to  a  soft  melody. 
Presently  admiration  comes  in,  as  a  sort  of 
balance  wheel  for  the  eccentric  revolutions 
of  your  fancy;  and  your  admiration  is 
touched  off  with  such  neat  quality  as  respect. 
Too  much  of  this,  indeed,  they  say,  deadens 
the  fancy,  and  so  retards  the  action  of  the 
heart  machinery.  But  with  a  proper  modi- 


124  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

cum  to  serve  as  a  stock,  devotion  is  grafted 
in ;  and  then,  by  an  agreeable  and  confused 
mingling,  all  these  qualities,  and  affections 
of  the  soul,  become  transfused  into  that 
vital  feeling  called  love. 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to 
another  and  better  counterpart  of  your  hu 
manity  ;  what  is  left  of  you  seems  the  mere 
husk  of  some  kernel  that  has  been  stolen.  It 
is  not  an  emotion  of  yours,  which  is  making 
very  easy  voyages  toward  another  soul — • 
that  may  be  shortened  or  lengthened  at  will, 
but  it  is  a  passion  that  is  only  yours,  because 
it  is  there;  the  more  it  lodges  there  the  more 
keenly  you  feel  it  to  be  yours. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion  may 
indeed  belong  to  you ;  but  they  never  gave 
birth  to  such  an  one  before,  simply  because 
there  was  no  place  in  which  it  could  grow. 
Nature  is  very  provident  in  these  matters. 
The  chrysalis  does  not  burst  until  there  is  a 
wing  to  help  the  gauze-fly  upward.  The 
shell  does  not  break  until  the  bird  can 
breathe;  nor  does  the  swallow  quit  its  nest 
until  its  wings  are  tipped  with  the  airy  oars. 

This  passion  of  love  is  strong  just  in  pro 
portion  as  the  atmosphere  it  finds  is  tender 
of  its  life.  Let  that  atmosphere  change  into 
too  great  coldness,  and  the  passion  becomes 


WITH   A   WISP   OF  PAPER  125 

a  wreck — not  yours,  because  it  is  not  worth 
your  having — nor  vital,  because  it  has  lost 
the  soil  where  it  grew.  But  is  it  not  laying 
the  reproach  in  a  high  quarter  to  say  that 
those  qualities  of  the  heart  which  begot  this 
passion  are  exhausted  and  will  not  thence 
forth  germinate  through  all  of  your  life 
time? 

— Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame  from 
your  arbor  plant,  and  the  wrenched  arms  of 
the  despoiled  climber  will  not  at  the  first 
touch  any  new  trellis ;  they  can  not  in  a  day 
change  the  habit  of  a  year.  But  let  the  new 
support  stand  firmly,  and  the  needy  tendrils 
will  presently  lay  hold  upon  the  stranger! 
and  your  plant  will  regain  its  pride  and 
pomp,  cherishing,  perhaps,  in  its  bent  figure, 
a  memento  of  the  old,  but  in  its  more  earnest 
and  abounding  life  mindful  only  of  its  sweet 
dependence  on  the  new. 

Let  the  poets  say  what  they  will;  these 
affections  of  ours  are  not  blind,  stupid  crea 
tures,  to  starve  under  polar  snows  when  the 
very  breezes  of  heaven  are  the  appointed 
messengers  to  guide  them  toward  warmth 
and  sunshine ! 

— And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  manner 
I  tear  off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and,  holding  it  in 
the  blaze  of  my  lamp,  relight  my  cigar.  It 


A 

I2O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

does  not  burn  so  easily,  perhaps,  as  at  first : 
it  wants  warming  before  it  will  catch ;  but 
presently  it  is  in  a  broad,  full  glow  that 
throws  light  into  the  corners  of  my  room. 

— Just  so — thought  I — the  love  of  youth, 
which  succeeds  the  crackling  blaze  of  boy 
hood,  makes  a  broader  flame,  though  it  may 
not  be  so  easily  kindled.  A  mere  dainty  step, 
or  a  curling  lock,  or  a  soft  blue  eye  are  not 
enough ;  but  in  her,  who  has  quickened  the 
new  blaze,  there  is  a  blending  of  all  these, 
with  a  certain  sweetness  of  soul  that  finds 
expression  in  whatever  feature  or  motion 
you  look  upon.  Her  charms  steal  over  you 
gently  and  almost  imperceptibly.  You  think 
that  she  is  a  pleasant  companion — nothing 
more  :  and  you  find  the  opinion  strongly  con 
firmed,  day  by  day ;  so  well  confirmed,  in 
deed,  that  you  begin  to  wonder  why  it  is 
that  she  is  such  a  delightful  companion?  It 
can  not  be  her  eye,  for  you  have  seen  eyes 
almost  as  pretty  as  Nelly's  ;  nor  can  it  be  her 
mouth,  though  Nelly's  mouth  is  certainly 
very  sweet.  And  you  keep  studying  what  on 
earth  it  can  be  that  makes  you  so  earnest  to 
be  near  her,  or  to  listen  to  her  voice.  The 
study  is  pleasant.  You  do  not  know  any 
study  that  is  more  so,  or  which  you  accom 
plish  with  less  mental  fatigue. 


WITH    A    WISP   OF   PAPER  127 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the 
air  is  balmy,  and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's 
voice  and  manner  more  balmy  still,  you  won 
der — if  you  are  in  love?  When  a  man  has 
such  a  wonder,  he  is  either  very  near  love 
or  he  is  very  far  away  from  it ;  it  is  a  wonder 
that  is  either  suggested  by  his  hope  or  by 
that  entanglement  of  feeling  which  blunts 
all  his  perceptions. 

But  if  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a 
strong  fancy — so  strong  that  you  tell  your 
friends  carelessly  that  she  is  a  nice  girl — 
nay,  a  beautiful  girl ;  and  if  your  education 
has  been  bad,  you  strengthen  the  epithet  on 
your  own  tongue  with  a  very  wicked  exple 
tive,  of  which  the  mildest  form  would  be 
"deuced  fine  girl !"  Presently,  however,  you 
get  beyond  this,  and  your  companionship 
and  your  wonder  relapse  into  a  constant, 
quiet  habit  of  unmistakable  love — not  im 
pulsive,  quick  and  fiery,  like  the  first,  but 
mature  and  calm.  It  is  as  if  it  were  born 
with  your  soul,  and  the  recognition  of  it 
was  rather  an  old  remembrance  than  a  fresh 
passion.  It  does  not  seek  to  gratify  its  ex 
uberance  and  force  with  such  relief  as  night 
serenades,  or  any  Jacques-like  meditations 
in  the  forest;  but  it  is  a  quiet,  still  joy, 
that  floats  on  your  hope  into  the  years  to 


128  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

\\ 

come — making  the  prospect  all  sunny  and 
joyful. 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever 
was  stormy  or  harmful :  it  gives  a  perma 
nence  to  the  smile  of  existence.  It  does  not 
make  the  sea  of  your  life  turbulent  with  high 
emotions,  as  if  a  strong  wind  were  blowing, 
but  it  is  as  if  an  Aphrodite  had  broken  on 
the  surface,  and  the  ripples  were  spreading 
with  a  sweet,  low  sound,  and  widening  far 
out  to  the  very  shores  of  time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy,  to 
bolster  up  your  feelings  with  extravagant 
vows ;  even  should  you  try  this  in  her  pres 
ence,  the  words  are  lacking  to  put  such  vows 
in.  So  soon  as  you  reach  them  they  fail  you, 
and  the  oath  only  quivers  on  the  lip,  or  tells 
its  story  by  a  pressure  of  the  fingers.  You 
wear  a  brusque,  pleasant  air  with  your  ac 
quaintances,  and  hint — with  a  sly  look — at 
possible  changes  in  your  circumstances.  Of 
an  evening  you  are  kind  to  the  most  unat 
tractive  of  the  wall-flowers — if  only  your 
Nelly  is  away ;  and  you  have  a  sudden  char 
ity  for  street  beggars  with  pale  children. 
You  catch  yourself  taking  a  step  in  one  of 
the  new  polkas  upon  a  country  walk,  and 
wonder  immensely  at  the  number  of  bright 
days  which  succeed  each  other,  without 


WITH    A    WISP   OF   PAPER  1 29 

leaving  a  single  stormy  gap  for  your  old 
melancholy  moods.  Even  the  chambermaids 
at  your  hotel  never  did  their  duty  one-half 
so  well ;  and  as  for  your  man  Tom,  he  is  be 
come  a  perfect  pattern  of  a  fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow  ;  but  it  has  gone 
out  once,  and  it  may  go  out  again. 

— You  begin  to  talk  of  marriage;  but 
some  obstinate  papa  or  guardian  uncle 
thinks  that  it  will  never  do — that  it  is  quite 
too  soon,  or  that  Nelly  is  a  mere  gkl.  Or 
some  of  your  wild  oats — quite  forgotten  by 
yourself — shoot  up  on  the  vision  of  a  staid 
mamma  and  throw  a  very  damp  shadow  on 
your  character.  Or  the  old  lady  has  an  am 
bition  of  another  sort,  which  you,  a  simple, 
earnest,  plodding  bachelor,  can  never  gratify 
— being  of  only  passable  appearance,  and 
unschooled  in  the  fashions  of  the  world,  you 
will  be  eternally  rubbing  the  elbows  of  the 
old  lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflicting  to  one 
who  has  been  living  for  quite  a  number  of 
weeks,  or  months,  in  a  pleasant  dreamland, 
where  there  were  no  five  per  cents,  or  repu 
tations,  but  only  a  very  full  and  delirious 
flow  of  feeling.  What  care  you  for  any  po 
sition  except  a  position  near  the  being  that 
you  love  ?  What  wealth  do  you  prize,  except 


C 


130  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

a  wealth  of  heart  that  shall  never  know 
diminution  ;  or  for  reputation,  except  that  of 
truth  and  of  honor?  How  hard  it  would 
break  upon  these  pleasant  idealities  to  have 
a  weazen-faced  old  guardian  set  his  arm  in 
yours  and  tell  you  how  tenderly  he  has  at 
heart  the  happiness  of  his  niece,  and  reason 
with  you  about  your  very  small  and  sparse 
dividends  and  your  limited  business,  and 
caution  you — for  he  has  a  lively  regard  for 
your  interests — about  continuing  your  ad 
dresses? 

— The  kind  old  curmudgeon ! 

Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a 
very  stupid  fellow,  and  all  your  charity  for 
withered  wall-flowers  is  gone.  Perhaps  in 
your  wrath  the  suspicion  comes  over  you 
that  she  too  wishes  you  were  something 
higher,  or  more  famous,  or  richer,  or  any 
thing  but  what  you  are ! — a  very  dangerous 
suspicion :  for  no  man  with  any  true  nobility 
of  soul  can  ever  make  his  heart  the  slave  of 
another's  condescension. 

But  no — you  will  not,  you  can  not  believe 
this  of  Nelly ;  that  face  of  hers  is  too  mild 
and  gracious ;  and  her  manner,  as  she  takes 
your  hand,  after  your  heart  is  made  sad,  and 
turns  away  those  rich  blue  eyes — shadowed 
more  deeply  than  ever  by  the  long  and  mois- 


WITH    A    WISP   OF   PAPER  13! 

II 

tened  fringe ;  and  the  exquisite  softness  and 
meaning  of  the  pressure  of  those  little  rin 
gers  ;  and  the  low,  half  sob,  and  the  heaving 
of  that  bosom  in  its  struggles  between  love 
and  duty — all  forbid.  Nelly,  you  could 
swear,  is  tenderly  indulgent,  like  the  fond 
creature  that  she  is,  toward  all  your  short 
comings,  and  would  not  barter  your  strong 
love  and  your  honest  heart  for  the  greatest 
magnate  in  the  land. 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding  love 
of  a  true-hearted  woman !  That  last  fond 
look  of  hers,  hopeful  and  encouraging,  has 
more  power  within  it  to  nerve  your  soul  to 
high  deeds  than  all  the  admonitions  of  all 
your  tutors.  Your  heart,  beating  large  with 
hope,  quickens  the  flow  upon  the  brain,  and 
you  make  wild  vows  to  win  greatness.  But 
alas,  this  is  a  great  world — very  full,  and 
very  rough : 

all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do; 

All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer.* 

Hard,  withering  toil  only  can  achieve  a 
name  ;  and  long  days,  and  months,  and  years, 
must  be  passed  in  the  chase  of  that  bubble — 
reputation,  which,  when  once  grasped, 

*Festus. 


132  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

breaks  in  your  eager  clutch  into  a  hundred 
lesser  bubbles  that  soar  above  you  still ! 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to  time, 
and  a  note  or  two  tenderly  written,  keep  up 
the  blaze  in  your  heart.  But  presently  the 
lynx-eyed  old  guardian — so  tender  of  your 
interests  and  hers — forbids  even  this  irreg 
ular  and  unsatisfying  correspondence.  Now 
you  can  feed  yourself  only  on  stray  glimpses 
of  her  figure — as  full  of  sprightliness  and 
grace  as  ever ;  and  that  beaming  face,  you 
are  half  sorry  to  see  from  time  to  time — still 
beautiful.  You  struggle  with  your  moods  of 
melancholy,  and  wear  bright  looks  yourself 
— bright  to  her,  and  very  bright  to  the  eye 
of  the  old  curmudgeon  who  has  snatched 
your  heart  away.  It  will  never  do  to  show 
your  weakness  to  a  man. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning,  you 
learn  that  she  is  gone — too  far  away  to  be 
seen,  too  closely  guarded  to  be  reached.  For 
awhile  you  throw  down  your  books  and 
abandon  your  toil  in  despair — thinking  very 
bitter  thoughts,  and  making  very  helpless  re 
solves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning,  but  it  will  re 
quire  constant  and  strong  respiration  to  keep 
it  in  a  glow. 

A  letter  or  two  dispatched  at  random  re- 


WITH    A    WISP    OF   PAPER  133 

V 

lieve  the  excess  of  your  fever,  until,  with 
practice,  these  random  letters  have  even  less 
heat  in  them  than  the  heat  of  your  study  or 
of  your  business.  Grief — thank  God ! — is  not 
so  progressive  or  so  cumulative  as  joy.  For 
a  time  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  mood  with 
which  you  recall  your  broken  hopes,  and 
with  which  you  selfishly  link  hers  to  the 
shattered  wreck ;  but  absence  and  ignorance 
tame  the  point  of  your  woe.  You  call  up  the 
image  of  Nelly  adorning  other  and  distant 
scenes.  You  see  the  tearful  smile  give  place 
to  a  blithesome  cheer,  and  the  thought  of 
you  that  shaded  her  fair  face  so  long  fades 
under  the  sunshine  of  gayety,  or,  at  best,  it 
only  seems  to  cross  that  white  forehead  like 
a  playful  shadow  that  a  fleecy  cloud-rem 
nant  will  fling  upon  a  sunny  lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world,  with  its  whirl  and 
roar,  is  deafening  the  sweet,  distant  notes 
that  come  up  through  old  choked  channels 
of  the  affections.  Life  is  calling  for  earnest 
ness,  and  not  for  regrets.  So  the  months 
and  the  years  slip  by ;  your  bachelor  habit 
grows  easy  and  light  with  wearing;  you 
have  mourned  enough  to  smile  at  the  vio 
lent  mourning  of  others,  and  you  have  en 
joyed  enough  to  sigh  over  their  little  eddies 
of  delight.  Dark  shades  and  delicious 


f  C 


134  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

streaks  of  crimson  and  gold  color  lie  upon 
your  life.  Your  heart,  with  all  its  weight  of 
ashes,  can  yet  sparkle  at  the  sound  of  a  fairy 
step,  and  your  face  can  yet  open  into  a 
round  of  joyous  smiles  that  are  almost  hopes 
— in  the  presence  of  some  bright-eyed  girl. 

But  amid  this  there  will  float  over  you 
from  time  to  time  a  midnight  trance,  in 
which  you  will  hear  again  with  a  thirsty  ear 
the  witching  melody  of  the  days  that  are 
gone,  and  you  will  wake  from  it  with  a 
shudder  into  the  cold  resolves  of  your  lonely 
and  manly  life.  But  the  shudder  passes  as 
easy  as  night  from  morning.  Tearful  re 
grets  and  memories  that  touch  to  the  quick 
are  dull  weapons  to  break  through  the  pan 
oply  of  your  seared,  eager  and  ambitious 
manhood.  They  only  venture  out  like  timid, 
white-winged  flies  when  night  is  come,  and 
at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  dawn  they  shrivel 
up  and  lie  without  a  flutter  in  some  corner 
of  your  soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she 
has  returned — a  woman — there  is  a  slight 
glow,  but  no  tumultuous  bound  of  the  heart. 
Life  and  time  have  worried  you  down  like 
a  spent  hound.  The  world  has  given  you  a 
habit  of  easy  and  unmeaning  smiles.  You 
half  accuse  yourself  of  ingratitude  and  for- 


m. 


WITH    A    WISP   OF   PAPER  135 

getfulness ;  but  the  accusation  does  not  op 
press  you.  It  does  not  even  distract  your 
attention  from  the  morning  journal.  You 
can  not  work  yourself  into  a  respectable  de 
gree  of  indignation  against  the  old  gentle 
man — her  guardian. 

You  sigh — poor  thing!  and  in  a  very 
flashy  waistcoat  you  venture  a  morning  call. 

She  meets  you  kindly — a  comely,  matron 
ly  dame  in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all  gath 
ered  under  a  high-topped  comb;  and  she 
presents  to  you  two  little  boys  in  smart 
crimson  jackets  dressed  up  with  braid.  And 
you  dine  with  madam — a  family  party ;  and 
the  weazen-faced  old  gentleman  meets  you 
with  a  most  pleasant  shake  of  the  hand — 
hints  that  you  were  among  his  niece's  earli 
est  friends,  and  hopes  that  you  are  getting 
on  well? 

— Capitally  well ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert — Dick 
to  get  a  plum  from  your  own  dish,  Tom  to 
be  kissed  by  his  rosy-faced  papa.  In  short, 
you  are  made  perfectly  at  home ;  and  you 
sit  over  your  wine  for  an  hour,  in  a  cozy 
smoke  with  the  gentlemanly  uncle  and  with 
the  very  courteous  husband  of  your  second 
flame. 

It  is  all  very  jovial  at  the  table,  for  good 


136  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

wine  is,  I  find,  a  great  strengthener  of  the 
bachelor  heart.  But  afterward,  when  night 
has  fairly  set  in  and  the  blaze  of  your  fire 
goes  flickering  over  your  lonely  quarters, 
you  heave  a  deep  sigh.  And  as  your  thought 
runs  back  to  the  perfidious  Louise,  and  calls 
up  the  married  and  matronly  Nelly,  you  sob 
over  that  poor  dumb  heart  within  you,  which 
craves  so  madly  a  free  and  joyous  utter 
ance  !  And  as  you  lean  over  with  your  fore 
head  in  your  hands,  and  your  eyes  fall  upon 
the  old  hound  slumbering  on  the  rug — the 
tears  start,  and  you  wish — that  you  had 
married  years  ago,  and  that  you  too  had 
your  pair  of  prattling  boys  to  drive  away 
the  loneliness  of  your  solitary  hearthstone. 

— My  cigar  would  not  go;  it  was  fairly 
out.  But,  with  true  bachelor  obstinacy,  I 
vowed  that  I  would  light  again. 


I  HATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brim 
stone  matches  were  never  made  in  heaven ; 
and  it  is  sad  to  think  that,  with  few  excep 
tions,  matches  are  all  of  them  tipped  with 
brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and  the 
coals  being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a 
match  is  all  that  is  left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first 
trial,  and  there  are  those  that  with  the  most 
indefatigable  coaxings  never  show  a  spark. 
They  may  indeed  leave  in  their  trail  phos 
phorescent  streaks ;  but  you  can  no  more 
light  your  cigar  at  them  than  you  can  kindle 
your  heart  at  the  covered  wife-trails  which 
137 


'1 '  / 

138  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

the  infernal  gossiping  old  match-makers  will 
lay  in  your  path. 

Was  there  ever  a  bachelor  of  seven  and 
twenty,  I  wonder,  who  has  not  been  haunted 
by  pleasant  old  ladies  and  trim,  excellent, 
good-natured  married  friends,  who  talk  to 
him  about  nice  matches — "very  nice  match 
es,"  matches  which  never  go  off  ?  And  who, 
pray,  has  not  had  some  kind  old  uncle  to  fill 
two  sheets  for  him  (perhaps  in  the  time  of 
heavy  postages)  about  some  most  eligible 
connection — "of  highly  respectable  parent- 
age!" 

What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a 
withered  bachelor  to  bloom  forth  in  the  dig 
nity  of  an  ancestral  tree !  What  a  precious 
surprise  for  him,  who  has  all  his  life  wor 
shiped  the  wing-heeled  Mercury,  to  find  on 
a  sudden  a  great  stock  of  preserved  and 
most  respectable  Penates ! 

— In  God's  name — thought  I,  puffing  ve 
hemently — what  is  a  man's  heart  given  him 
for,  if  not  to  choose,  where  his  heart's  blood, 
every  drop  of  it  is  flowing?  Who  is  going 
to  dam  these  billowy  tides  of  the  soul,  whose 
roll  is  ordered  by  a  planet  greater  than  the 
moon — and  that  planet — Venus?  Who  is 
going  to  shift  this  vane  of  my  desires,  when 
every  breeze  that  passes  in  my  heaven  is 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH  139 

keeping  it  all  the  more  strongly,  to  its  fixed 
bearings  ? 

Besides  this,  there  are  the  money  matches, 
urged  upon  you  by  disinterested  bachelor 
friends,  who  would  be  very  proud  to  see 
you  at  the  head  of  an  establishment.  And  I 
must  confess  that  this  kind  of  talk  has  a 
pleasant  jingle  about  it;  and  is  one  of  the 
cleverest  aids  to  a  bachelor's  day-dreams, 
that  can  well  be  imagined.  And  let  not  the 
pouting  lady  condemn  me,  without  a  hear 
ing. 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think — for  a 
contemplative  bachelor — that  the  pretty  er 
mine  which  so  sets  off  the  transparent  hue 
of  your  imaginary  wife,  or  the  lace  which 
lies  so  bewitchingly  upon  the  superb  round 
ness  of  her  form — or  the  graceful  bodice, 
trimmed  to  a  line,  which  is  of  such  exquisite 
adaptation  to  her  lithe  figure,  will  be  al 
ways  at  her  command — nay,  that  these  are 
only  units  among  the  chameleon  hues,  under 
which  you  shall  feed  upon  her  beauty !  I 
want  to  know  if  it  is  not  a  pretty  cabinet  pic 
ture  for  fancy  to  luxuriate  upon — that  of  a 
sweet  wife,  who  is  cheating  hosts  of  friends 
into  love,  sympathy  and  admiration,  by  the 
modest  munificence  of  her  wealth  ?  Is  it  not 
rather  agreeable,  to  feed  your  hopeful  soul 


I4O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

upon  that  abundance  which,  while  it  sup 
plies  her  need,  will  give  a  range  to  her  lov 
ing  charities — which  will  keep  from  her 
brow  the  shadows  of  anxiety,  and  will  sub 
lime  her  gentle  nature  by  adding  to  it  the 
grace  of  an  angel  of  mercy? 

Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the  pesti 
lent  humors  of  bachelorhood  hang  heavy  on 
you,  to  foresee  in  that  shadowy  realm, 
where  hope  is  a  native,  the  quiet  of  a  home, 
made  splendid  with  attractions ;  and  made 
real  by  the  presence  of  her  who  bestows 
them  ?  Upon  my  word — thought  I,  as  I  con 
tinued  puffing — such  a  match  must  make  a 
very  grateful  lighting  of  one's  inner  sym 
pathies  ;  nor  am  I  prepared  to  say  that  such 
associations  would  not  add  force  to  the  most 
abstract  love  imaginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment — what  is  it  that 
we  poor  fellows  love  ?  We  love,  if  one  may 
judge  for  himself,  over  his  cigar — gentle 
ness,  beauty,  refinement,  generosity  and  in 
telligence — and  far  above  these,  a  returning 
love,  made  up  of  all  these  qualities,  and 
gaining  upon  your  lore,  day  by  day,  and 
month  by  month,  like  a  sunny  morning 
gaining  upon  the  frosts  of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refine 
ment;  and  it  is  a  security  for  gentleness, 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH  14! 

since  it  removes  disturbing  anxieties ;  and 
it  is  a  pretty  promoter  of  intelligence,  since 
it  multiplies  the  avenues  for  its  reception ; 
and  it  is  a  good  basis  for  a  generous  habit 
of  life ;  it  even  equips  beauty,  neither  hard 
ening  its  hand  with  toil,  nor  tempting  the 
wrinkles  to  come  early.  But  whether  it  pro 
vokes  greatly  that  returning  passion — that 
abnegation  of  soul — that  sweet  trustfulness, 
and  abiding  affection,  which  are  to  clothe 
your  heart  with  joy,  is  far  more  doubtful. 
Wealth,  while  it  gives  so  much,  asks  much 
in  return ;  and  the  soul  that  is  grateful  to 
mammon,  is  not  over  ready  to  be  grateful 
for  intensity  of  love.  It  is  hard  to  gratify 
those  who  have  nothing  left  to  gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man  who  having  wear 
ied  his  soul  with  delays  and  doiibts,  or  ex 
hausted  the  freshness  and  exubeiance  of  his 
youth — by  a  hundred  little  dallyings  with 
love — consigns  himself  at  length  to  the  is 
sues  of  what  people  call  a  nice  match — 
whether  of  money,  or  of  a  family ! 

Heaven  help  you  (I  brush  the  ashes  from 
my  cigar)  when  you  begin  to  regard  mar 
riage  as  only  a  respectable  institution,  and 
under  the  advices  of  staid  old  friends,  begin 
to  look  about  you  for  some  very  respectable 
wife.  You  may  admire  her  figure,  and  her 


142  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

family ;  and  bear  pleasantly  in  mind  the  very 
casual  mention  which  has  been  made  by 
some  of  your  penetrating  friends — that  she 
has  large  expectations.  You  think  that  she 
would  make  a  very  capital  appearance  at 
the  head  of  your  table ;  nor,  in  the  event  of 
your  coming  to  any  public  honor,  would  she 
make  you  blush  for  her  breeding.  She  talks 
well,  exceedingly  well ;  and  her  face  has  its 
charms  ;  especially  under  a  little  excitement. 
Her  dress  is  elegant,  and  tasteful,  and  she 
is  constantly  remarked  upon  by  all  your 
friends,  as  a  "nice  person."  Some  good  old 
lady,  in  whose  pew  she  occasionally  sits  on 
a  Sunday,  or  to  whom  she  has  sometime 
sent  a  papier  mache  card-case,  for  the 
show-box  of  some  Dorcas  benevolent  soci 
ety,  thinks — with  a  sly  wink — that  she 
would  make  a  fine  wife  for — somebody. 

She  certainly  has  an  elegant  figure ;  and 
the  marriage  of  some  half  dozen  of  your 
old  flames  warns  you  that  time  is  slipping 
and  your  chances  failing.  And  in  the  pleas 
ant  warmth  of  some  after-dinner  mood,  you 
resolve — with  her  image  in  her  prettiest 
pelisses  drifting  across  your  brain — that 
you  will  marry.  Now  comes  the  pleasant 
excitement  of  the  chase ;  and  whatever  fam 
ily  dignity  may  surround  her  only  adds  to 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH  143 

the  pleasurable  glow  of  the  pursuit.  You 
give  an  hour  more  to  your  toilette,  and  a 
hundred  or  two  more,  a  year,  to  your 
tailor.  All  is  orderly,  dignified,  and  gra 
cious.  Charlotte  is  a  sensible  woman,  ev 
erybody  says ;  and  you  believe  it  yourself. 
You  agree  in  your  talk  about  books,  and 
churches,  and  flowers.  Of  course  she  has 
good  taste — for  she  accepts  you.  The  ac 
ceptance  is  dignified,  elegant,  and  even 
courteous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations; 
and  your  old  friend  Tom  writes  you — that 
he  hears  you  are  going  to  marry  a  splendid 
woman ;  and  all  the  old  ladies  say — what  a 
capital  match !  And  your  business  partner, 
who  is  a  married  man,  and  something  of  a 
wag — "sympathizes  sincerely."  Upon  the 
whole,  you  feel  a  little  proud  of  your  ar 
rangement.  You  write  to  an  old  friend  in 
the  country,  that  you  are  to  marry  pres 
ently  Miss  Charlotte  of  such  a  street, 
whose  father  was  something  very  fine,  in 
his  way ;  and  whose  father  before  him  was 
very  distinguished ;  you  add,  in  a  postscript, 
that  she  is  easily  situated,  and  has  "expecta 
tions."  Your  friend,  who  has  a  wife  that 
he  loves,  and  that  loves  him,  writes  back 
kindly — "hoping  you  may  be  happy;"  and 


144  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR 

hoping  so  yourself,  you  light  your  cigar — 
one  of  your  last  bachelor  cigars — with  the 
margin  of  his  letter. 

The  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  mar 
riage  ;  at  which  you  receive  a  very  elegant 
welcome  from  your  wife's  spinster  cousins 
— and  drink  a  great  deal  of  champagne 
with  her  bachelor  uncles.  And  as  you  take 
the  dainty  hand  of  your  bride — very  mag 
nificent  under  that  bridal  wreath,  and  with 
her  face  lit  up  by  a  brilliant  glow — your 
eye,  and  your  soul,  for  the  first  time,  grow 
full.  And  as  your  arm  circles  that  elegant 
figure,  and  you  draw  her  toward  you,  feel 
ing  that  she  is  yours — there  is  a  bound  at 
your  heart,  that  makes  you  think  your  soul- 
life  is  now  whole,  and  earnest.  All  your 
early  dreams,  and  imaginations,  come  flow 
ing  on  your  thought,  like  bewildering  mu 
sic  ;  and  as  you  gaze  upon  her — the  admira 
tion  of  that  crowd — it  seems  to  you,  that 
all  that  your  heart  prizes  is  made  good  by 
the  accident  of  marriage. 

— Ah — thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes 
again — bridal  pictures  are  not  home  pic 
tures  ;  and  the  hour  at  the  altar  is  but  a 
poor  type  of  the  waste  of  years  ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered ; 
Charlotte  has  secured  the  best  of  house- 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH  145 

keepers,  and  she  meets  the  compliments  of 
your  old  friends  who  come  to  dine  with 
you  with  a  suavity  that  is  never  at  fault. 
And  they  tell  you — after  the  cloth  is  re 
moved,  and  you  sit  quietly  smoking  in 
memory  of  the  olden  times — that  she  is  a 
splendid  woman.  Even  the  old  ladies  who 
come  for  occasional  charities,  think  madame 
a  pattern  of  a  lady ;  and  so  think  her  old 
admirers,  whom  she  receives  still  with  an 
easy  grace,  that  half  puzzles  you.  And  as 
you  stand  by  the  ball-room  door,  at  two  of 
the  morning,  with  your  Charlotte's  shawl 
upon  your  arm,  some  little  panting  fellow 
will  confirm  the  general  opinion,  by  telling 
you  that  madame  is  a  magnificent  dancer ; 
and  Monsieur  le  Comte  will  praise  extrava 
gantly  her  French.  You  are  grateful  for 
all  this ;  but  you  have  an  uncommonly  seri 
ous  way  of  expressing  your  gratitude. 

You  think  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy 
fellow ;  and  yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over 
your  thought ;  and  you  \vonder  that  the 
sight  of  your  Charlotte  in  the  dress  you 
used  to  admire  so  much,  does  not  scatter 
them  to  the  winds ;  but  it  does  not.  You 
feel  coy  about  putting  your  arm  around  that 
delicately-robed  figure — you  might  derange 
the  plaiting  of  her  dress.  She  is  civil  to- 


146  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

ward  you ;  and  tender  toward  your  bachelor 
friends.  She  talks  with  dignity — adjusts 
her  lace  cap — and  hopes  you  will  make  a 
figure  in  the  world,  for  the  sake  of  the  fam 
ily.  Her  cheek  is  never  soiled  with  a  tear ; 
and  her  smiles  are  frequent,  especially  when 
you  have  some  spruce  young  fellows  at  your 
table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes,  per 
haps,  whose  superscription  you  do  not 
know ;  and  some  of  her  admirers'  attentions 
become  so  pointed,  and  constant,  that  your 
pride  is  stirred.  It  would  be  silly  to  show 
jealousy;  but  you  suggest  to  your  "dear" — 
as  you  sip  your  tea — the  slight  impropriety 
of  her  action. 

Perhaps  you  fondly  long  for  some  little 
scene,  as  a  proof  of  wounded  confidence ; 
but  no — nothing  of  that;  she  trusts  (calling 
you  "my  dear"),  that  she  knows  how  to 
sustain  the  dignity  of  her  position. 

You  are  too  sick  at  heart  for  comment, 
or  for  reply. 

— And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul  of 
which  you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that  are 
gone?  Is  this  the  blending  of  sympathies 
that  was  to  steal  from  life  its  bitterness ; 
and  spread  over  care  and  suffering,  the 
sweet,  ministering  hand  of  kindness,  and  of 


e*--as*fe^ 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH  147 

love?  Ay,  you  may  well  wander  back  to 
your  bachelor  club,  and  make  the  hours 
long  at  the  journals,  or  at  play — killing  the 
flagging  lapse  of  your  life !  Talk  sprightly 
with  your  old  friends — and  mimic  the  joy 
you  have  not ;  or  you  will  wear  a  bad  name 
upon  your  hearth  and  head.  Never  suffer 
your  Charlotte  to  catch  sight  of  the  tears 
which  in  bitter  hours  may  start  from  your 
eye ;  or  to  hear  the  sighs  which  in  your 
times  of  solitary  musings  may  break  forth 
sudden  and  heavy.  Go  on  counterfeiting 
your  life,  as  you  have  begun.  It  was  a  nice 
match  ;  and  you  are  a  nice  husband  ! 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God,  to 
ward  whom  your  heart  runs  out  freely ;  and 
you  love  to  catch  him  in  his  respite  from 
your  well-ordered  nursery,  and  the  tasks  of 
his  teachers — alone ;  and  to  spend  upon  him 
a  little  of  that  depth  of  feeling,  which 
through  so  many  years  has  scarce  been 
stirred.  You  play  with  him  at  his  games ; 
you  fondle  him;  you  take  him  to  your 
bosom. 

But  papa — he  says — see  how  you  have 
tumbled  my  collar.  What  shall  I  tell 
mamma  ? 

— Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you ! 

Ah,    thought    I — my   cigar   was   getting 


148  REVERIES   OF    A   BACHELOR 

dull,  and  nauseous — is  there  not  a  spot  in 
your  heart  that  the  gloved  hand  of  your  ele 
gant  wife  has  never  reached :  that  you  wish 
it  might  reach? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend :  his  was 
not  a  "nice  match;"  he  was  married  years 
before  you ;  and  yet  the  beaming  looks  of 
his  wife  and  his  lively  smile  are  as  fresh  and 
honest  as  they  were  years  ago;  and  they 
make  you  ashamed  of  your  disconsolate  hu 
mor.  Your  stay  is  lengthened,  but  the  home 
letters  are  not  urgent  for  your  return;  yet 
they  are  marvelously  proper  letters,  and 
rounded  with  a  French  adieu.  You  could 
have  wished  a  little  scrawl  from  your  boy 
at  the  bottom,  in  the  place  of  the  postscript, 
which  gives  you  the  names  of  a  new  opera 
troupe ;  and  you  hint  as  much — a  very  bold 
stroke  for  you. 

Ben — she  says — writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return  there  is  no  great  an 
ticipation  of  delight;  in  contrast  with  the 
old  dreams,  that  a  pleasant  summer's  jour 
ney  has  called  up,  your  parlor  as  you  enter 
it — so  elegant,  so  still — so  modish — seems 
the  charnel-house  of  your  heart. 

By  and  by  you  fall  into  weary  days  of 
sickness;  you  have  capital  nurses — nurses 
highly  recommended — nurses  who  never 


\J 


LIGHTED   WITH    A    MATCH  149 

make  mistakes — nurses  who  have  served 
long  in  the  family.  But  alas  for  that  heart 
of  sympathy,  and  for  that  sweet  face,  shad 
ed  with  your  pain — like  a  soft  landscape 
with  flying  clouds — you  have  none  of  them  ! 
Your  pattern  wife  may  come  in,  from  time 
to  time,  to  look  after  your  nurse,  or  to  ask 
after  your  sleep,  and  glide  out — her  silk 
dress  rustling  upon  the  door — like  dead 
leaves  in  the  cool  night  breezes  of  winter. 
Or,  perhaps,  after  putting  this  chair  in  its 
place,  and  adjusting  to  a  more  tasteful  fold 
that  curtain — she  will  ask  you,  with  a  tone 
that  might  mean  sympathy,  if  it  were  not  a 
stranger  to  you — if  she  can  do  anything 
more. 

Thank  her — as  kindly  as  you  can,  and 
close  your  eyes,  and  dream — or  rouse  up, 
to  lay  your  hand  upon  the  head  of  your  little 
boy — to  drink  in  health  and  happiness  from 
his  earnest  look  as  he  gazes  strangely  upon 
your  pale  and  shrunken  forehead.  Your 
smile  even,  ghastly  with  long  suffering,  dis 
turbs  him ;  there  is  no  interpreter,  save  the 
heart,  between  you. 

Your  parched  lips  feel  strangely  to  his 
flushed,  healthful  face ;  and  he  steps  about 
on  tip-toe,  at  a  motion  from  the  nurse,  to 
look  at  all  those  rosy-colored  medicines  up- 


I5O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

on  the  table — and  he  takes  your  cane  from 
the  corner,  and  passes  his  hand  over  the 
smooth  ivory  head ;  and  he  runs  his  eye 
along  the  wall  from  picture  to  picture,  till 
it  rests  on  one  he  knows — a  figure  in  bridal 
dress — beautiful,  almost  fond — and  he  for 
gets  himself,  and  says  aloud — "There's 
mamma !" 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  to  her  lip ;  you 
waken  from  your  doze  to  see  where  your 
eager  boy  is  looking ;  and  your  eyes,  too, 
take  in  much  as  they  can  of  that  figure — 
now  shadowy  to  your  fainting  vision — 
doubly  shadowy  to  your  fainting  heart ! 

From  day  to  day  you  sink  from  life :  the 
physician  says  the  end  is  not  far  off;  why 
should  it  be?  There  is  very  little  elastic 
force  within  you  to  keep  the  end  away. 
Madame  is  called,  and  your  little  boy.  Your 
sight  is  dim,  but  they  whisper  that  she  is 
beside  your  bed ;  and  you  reach  out  your 
hand — both  hands.  You  fancy  you  hear  a 
sob — a  strange  sound !  It  seems  as  if  it 
came  from  distant  years  —  a  confused, 
broken,  sigh,  sweeping  over  the  long 
stretch  of  your  life :  and  a  sigh  from  your 
heart — not  audible — answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand 
of  your  little  boy,  and  you  drag  him  toward 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH  15! 

you,  and  move  your  lips,  as  if  you  would 
speak  to  him ;  and  they  place  his  head  near 
you,  so  that  you  feel  his  fine  hair  brushing 
your  cheek — "My  boy,  you  must  love — 
your  mother!" 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive 
grasp,  and  something  like  a  tear  drops  upon 
your  face.  Good  God !  Can  it  be  indeed  a 
tear? 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile 
flits  over  your  features  as  you  seem  to  see 
her  figure — the  figure  of  the  painting — 
bending  over  you ;  and  you  feel  a  bound  at 
your  heart — the  same  bound  that  you  felt 
on  your  bridal  morning;  the  same  bound 
which  you  used  to  feel  in  the  springtime  of 
your  life. 

— Only  one — rich,  full  bound  of  the 
heart — that  is  all ! 

— My  cigar  is  out.  I  could  not  have  lit  it 
again  if  I  would.  It  was  wholly  burned. 

"Aunt  Tabithy"— said  I,  as  I  finished 
reading — "may  I  smoke  now  under  your 
rose  tree?" 

Aunt  Tabithy,  who  had  laid  down  her 
knitting  to  hear  me — smiled — brushed  a 
tear  from  her  old  eyes,  said — "Yes — Isaac," 
and  having  scratched  the  back  of  her  head 
with  the  disengaged  needle,  resumed  her 
knitting. 


FOURTH  REVERIE 


MORNING,  NOON  AND  EVENING 


MORNING, 
NOON  AND 

EVENING 


IT  is  a  spring  day  under  the  oaks — the 
loved  oaks  of  a  once  cherished  home — now, 
alas,  mine  no  longer ! 

I  had  sold  the  old  farmhouse,  and  the 
groves,  and  the  cool  springs,  where  I  had 
bathed  my  head  in  the  heats  of  summer; 
and  with  the  first  warm  days  of  May,  they 
were  to  pass  from  me  forever.  Seventy 
years  they  had  been  in  the  possession  of  my 
mother's  family ;  for  seventy  years  they  had 
borne  the  same  name  of  proprietorship ;  for 
seventy  years,  the  Lares  of  our  country 
home,  often  neglected,  almost  forgotten — 
yet  brightened  from  time  to  time  by  gleams 
155 


156  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

of  heart-worship,  had  held  their  place  in  the 
sweet  valley  of  Elmgrove. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  American 
life  of  ours  seventy  years  is  no  child's  holi 
day.  The  hurry  of  action,  and  progress 
may  pass  over  it  with  quick  step;  but  the 
footprints  are  many  and  deep.  You  surely 
will  not  wonder  that  it  made  me  sad  and 
thoughtful  to  break  the  chain  of  years  that 
bound  to  my  heart  the  oaks,  the  hills,  the 
springs,  the  valley — and  such  a  valley ! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it — large 
enough  to  make  a  river  for  English  land 
scape — winding  between  rich  banks  where, 
in  summer  time,  the  swallows  build  their 
nests  and  brood  by  myriads. 

Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the 
margin,  and  with  their  uplifted  arms  and 
leafy  spray  throw  great  patches  of  shade 
upon  the  meadow.  Old  lion-like  oaks,  too, 
where  the  meadow-soil  hardens  into  rolling 
upland,  fasten  to  the  ground  with  their 
ridgy  roots ;  and  with  their  gray,  scraggy 
limbs  make  delicious  shelter  for  the  panting 
workers,  or  for  the  herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream,  where  I  am  ly 
ing,  the  banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  sloping 
hills,  covered  with  groves  of  oaks  and  green 
pasture  lands  dotted  with  mossy  rocks. 


MORNING,    NOON    AND   EVENING        I5/ 

And  farther  on,  where  some  wood  has  been 
swept  down,  some  ten  years  gone,  by  the 
ax,  the  new  growth,  heavy  with  the  luxuri 
ant  foliage  of  spring,  covers  wide  spots  of 
the  slanting  land ;  while  some  dead  tree  in 
the  midst  still  stretches  out  its  bare  arms  to 
the  blast — a  solitary  mourner  over  the  wreck 
of  its  forest  brothers. 

Eastward  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into 
wavy  meadows,  upon  whose  farther  edge 
you  see  the  roofs  of  an  old  mansion,  with 
tall  chimneys  and  taller  elm-trees  shading 
it.  Beyond,  the  hills  rise  gently,  and  sweep 
away  into  wood-crowned  heights  that  are 
blue  with  distance.  At  the  upper  end  of  the 
valley  the  stream  is  lost  to  the  eye  in  a  wide 
swamp-wood,  which  in  the  autumn  time  is 
covered  with  a  scarlet  sheet,  blotched  here 
and  there  by  the  dark  crimson  stains  of  the 
ash-tops.  Farther  on  the  hills  crowd  close 
to  the  brook,  and  come  down  with  granite 
boulders,  and  scattered  birch-trees,  and 
beeches — under  which,  upon  the  smoky 
mornings  of  May,  I  have  time  and  again 
loitered,  and  thrown  my  line  into  the  pools 
which  curl  dark  and  still  under  their  tangled 
roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,  through 
the  openings  of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I 


158  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

see  a  broad  stretch  of  meadow,  with 
glimpses  of  the  silver  surface  of  the  stream, 
and  of  the  giant  solitary  elms,  and  of  some 
old  maple  that  has  yielded  to  the  spring 
tides,  and  now  dips  its  lower  boughs  in  the 
insidious  current — and  of  clumps  of  alders, 
and  willow  tufts — above  which,  even  now, 
the  black-and-white  coated  Bob-o'-Lincoln 
is  wheeling  his  musical  flight,  while  his 
quieter  mate  sits  swaying  on  the  topmost 
twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  dis 
tance  of  me,  and  crosses  the  brook  by  a  rude 
timber  bridge ;  beside  the  bridge  is  a  broad 
glassy  pool,  shaded  by  old  maples  and 
hickories,  where  the  cattle  drink  each  morn 
ing  on  their  way  to  the  hill  pastures.  A  step 
or  two  beyond  the  stream  a  lane  branches 
across  the  meadows  to  the  mansion  with  the 
tall  chimneys.  I  can  just  remember  now, 
the  stout,  broad-shouldered  old  gentleman, 
with  his  white  hat,  his  long  white  hair,  and 
his  white-headed  cane,  who  built  the  house, 
and  who  farmed  the  whole  valley  around 
me.  He  is  gone,  long  since ;  and  lies  in  a 
graveyard  looking  upon  the  sea !  The  elms 
that  he  planted  shake  their  weird  arms  over 
the  mouldering  roofs ;  and  his  fruit  garden 
shows  only  a  battered  phalanx  of  mossy 


MORNING,    NOON    AND   EVENING        159 

limbs,  which  will  scarce  tempt  the  July  ma 
rauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  side  the 
brook,  the  road  is  lost  to  view  among  the 
trees ;  but  if  I  were  to  follow  the  windings 
upon  the  hillside,  it  would  bring  me  shortly 
upon  the  old  home  of  my  grandfather ; 
there  is  no  pleasure  in  wandering  there 
now.  The  woods  that  sheltered  it  from  the 
northern  winds  are  cut  down ;  the  tall  cher 
ries  that  made  the  yard  one  leafy  bower  are 
dead.  The  cornice  is  straggling  from  the 
eaves ;  the  porch  has  fallen ;  the  stone  chim 
ney  is  yawning  with  wide  gaps.  Within, 
it  is  even  worse ;  the  floors  sway  upon  the 
mouldering  beams ;  the  doors  all  sag  from 
their  hinges  ;  the  rude  frescos  upon  the  par 
lor  wall  are  peeling  off ;  all  is  going  to  de 
cay — And  my  grandfather  sleeps  in  a  little 
graveyard  by  the  garden  wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road, 
within  a  few  yards  of  me,  and  leads  back, 
along  the  edge  of  the  meadow,  to  the  home 
ly  cottage,  which  has  been  my  special  care. 
Its  gray  porch  and  chimney  are  thrown  into 
rich  relief  by  a  grove  of  oaks  that  skirts  the 
hill  behind  it ;  and  the  doves  are  flying  un 
easily  about  the  open  doors  of  the  granary 
and  barns.  The  morning  sun  shines  pleas- 


l6o  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

antly  on  the  gray  group  of  buildings ;  and 
the  lowing  of  the  cows,  not  yet  driven  afield, 
adds  to  the  charming  homeliness  of  the 
scene.  But  alas  for  the  poor  azaleas,  and 
laurels,  and  vines  that  I  had  put  out  upon 
the  little  knoll  before  the  cottage  door — 
they  are  all  of  them  trodden  down:  only 
one  poor  creeper  hangs  its  loose  tresses  to 
the  lattice,  all  disheveled  and  forlorn! 

This  by-lane  which  opens  upon  my  farm 
house,  leaves  the  road  in  the  middle  of  a 
grove  of  oaks ;  the  brown  gate  swings  upon 
an  oak  tree — the  brown  gate  closes  upon  an 
oak  tree.  There  is  a  rustic  seat,  built  be 
tween  two  veteran  trees  that  rise  from  a 
little  hillock  near  by.  Half  a  century  ago 
there  was  a  rustic  seat  on  the  same  hillock 
— between  the  same  veteran  trees.  I  can 
trace  marks  of  the  old  blotches  upon  the 
bark,  and  the  scars  of  the  nails  upon  the 
scathed  trunks.  Time  and  time  again  it 
has  been  renewed.  This,  the  last,  was  built 
by  my  own  hands — a  cheerful  and  a  holy 
duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grand 
father  used  to  loiter  here  with  his  gun, 
while  his  hounds  lay  around  under  the  scat 
tered  oaks.  Now  he  sleeps,  as  I  said,  in 
the  little  graveyard  yonder,  where  I  can 


MORNING,    NOON    AND    EVENING        l6l 

see  one  or  two  white  tablets  glimmering 
through  the  foliage.  I  never  knew  him ;  he 
died,  as  the  brown  stone  table  says,  aged 
twenty-six.  Yesterday  I  climbed  the  wall 
that  skirts  the  yard,  and  plucked  a  flower 
from  hL  tomb.  I  take  out  now  from  my 
pocket-book  that  flower  —  a  frail,  first- 
blooming  violet — and  write  upon  the  slip 
of  paper,  into  which  I  have  thrust  its  deli 
cate  stem — "From  my  grandfather's  tomb 
— 1850." 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoll 
— far  more  dear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors 
have  sometimes  told  me  how  they  have  seen, 
forty  years  ago,  two  rosy-faced  girls  idling 
on  this  spot,  under  the  shade,  and  gathering 
acorns,  and  making  oak-leaved  garlands  for 
their  foreheads — Alas,  alas,  the  garlands 
they  wear  now  are  not  earthly  garlands ! 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic  seat, 
I  am  lying  this  May  morning.  I  have 
placed  my  gun  against  a  tree ;  my  shot- 
pouch  I  have  hung  upon  a  broken  limb.  I 
have  thrown  my  feet  upon  the  bench,  and 
lean  against  one  of  the  gnarled  oaks,  be 
tween  which  the  seat  is  built.  My  hat  is 
off ;  my  book  and  paper  are  beside  me ;  and 
my  pencil  trembles  in  my  fingers  as  I  catch 
sight  of  those  white  marble  tablets  gleam 


l62  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

ing  through  the  trees,  from  the  height  above 
me,  like  beckoning  angel  faces.  If  they 
were  alive !  two  more  near  and  dear  friends, 
in  a  world  where  we  count  friends  by  units. 

It  is  morning — a  bright  spring  morning 
under  the  oaks — these  loved  oaks  of  a  once 
cherished  home.  Last  night  I  slept  in  yon 
der  mansion,  under  the  elms.  The  cattle 
going  to  the  pasture  are  drinking  in  the  pool 
by  the  bridge ;  the  boy  who  drives  them  is 
making  his  shrill  halloo  echo  against  the 
hills.  The  sun  has  risen  fairly  over  the  east 
ern  heights,  and  shines  brightly  upon  the 
meadow-land  and  brightly  upon  a  bend  of 
the  brook  below  me.  The  birds — the  blue 
birds  sweetest  and  noisiest  of  all — are  sing 
ing  over  me  in  the  branches.  A  woodpecker 
is  hammering  at  a  dry  limb  aloft ;  and  Carlo 
pricks  up  his  ears,  and  looks  at  me — then 
stretches  out  his  head  upon  his  paws  in  a 
warm  bit  of  the  sunshine — and  sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  past ;  and 
the  past  brings  up  not  only  its  actualities, 
not  only  its  events  and  memories,  but — 
stranger  still  —  what  might  have  been. 
Every  little  circumstance  which  dawns  on 
the  awakened  memory  is  traced  not  only  to 
its  actual,  but  to  its  possible  issues. 

What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the 


MORNING,    NOON   AND   EVENING        163 

past !  a  great  and  gorgeous — a  rich  and  holy 
world!  Your  fancy  fills  it  up  artist-like; 
the  darkness  is  mellowed  off  into  soft 
shades ;  the  bright  spots  are  veiled  in  the 
sweet  atmosphere  of  distance;  and  fancy 
and  memory  together  make  up  a  rich 
dreamland  of  the  past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper 
some  of  the  visions  that  float  across  that 
dreamland  of  the  morning — I  will  not — I 
can  not  say  how  much  comes  fancywise, 
and  how  much  from  this  vaulting  memory. 
Of  this,  the  kind  reader  shall  himself  be 
judge. 


ISABEL  and  I — she  is  my  cousin,  and  is 
seven  years  old,  and  I  am  ten — are  sitting 
together  on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  under 
an  oak  tree  that  leans  half  way  over  to  the 
water.  I  am  much  stronger  than  she,  and 
taller  by  a  head.  I  hold  in  my  hands  a  little 
alder  rod,  with  which  I  am  fishing  for  the 
roach  and  minnows  that  play  in  the  pool  be 
low  us. 

She  is  watching  the  cork  tossing  on  the 
water,  or  playing  with  the  captured  fish 
that  lie  upon  the  bank.  She  has  auburn 
ringlets  that  fall  down  upon  her  shoulders ; 
and  her  straw  hat  lies  back  upon  them,  held 
only  by  the  strip  of  ribbon  that  passes  un- 
165 


*, 


1 66  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 


der  her  chin.  But  the  sun  does  not  shine 
upon  her  head ;  for  the  oak  tree  above  us  is 
full  of  leaves ;  and  only  here  and  there  a 
dimple  of  the  sunlight  plays  upon  the  pool, 
where  I  am  fishing. 

Her  eye  is  hazel  and  bright ;  and  now 
and  then  she  turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of 
girlish  curiosity,  as  I  lift  up  my  rod — and 
again  in  playful  menace,  as  she  grasps  in 
her  little  fingers  one  of  the  dead  fish  and 
threatens  to  throw  it  back  upon  the  stream. 
Her  little  feet  hang  over  the  edge  of  the 
bank ;  and  from  time  to  time  she  reaches 
down  to  dip  her  toe  in  the  water ;  and 
laughs  a  girlish  laugh  of  defiance,  as  I 
scold  her  for  frightening  away  the  fishes. 

"Bella,"  I  say,  "what  if  you  should  tumble 
in  the  river  ?" 
"But  I  won't." 
"Yes,  but  if  you  should?" 
"Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 
"But  if  I  wouldn't  pull  you  out?" 
"But  I  know  you  would;  wouldn't  you, 
Paul?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella?" 
"Because  you  love  Bella." 
"How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella  ?" 
"Because  once  you  told  me  so;  and  be 
cause  you  pick  flowers  for  me  that  I  can  not 


THE   MORNING  167 

reach;  and  because  you  let  me  take  your 
rod,  when  you  have  a  fish  upon  it." 

"But  that's  no  reason,  Bella." 

"Then  what  is,  Paul?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 

A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long 
time  at  the  bait ;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing 
up  and  down — and  now  he  is  fairly  hooked, 
and  pulls  away  toward  the  bank,  and  you 
can  not  see  the  cork. 

— "Here,  Bella,  quick !" — and  she  springs 
eagerly  to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the 
rod.  But  the  fish  has  dragged  it  away  on 
the  other  side  of  me;  and  as  she  reaches 
farther,  and  farther,  she  slips,  cries — "Oh, 
Paul !"  and  falls  into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came, 
was  over  a  man's  head — it  is  surely  over 
little  Isabel's.  I  fling  down  the  rod,  and 
thrusting  one  hand  into  the  roots  that  sup 
port  the  overhanging  bank,  I  grasp  at  her 
hat,  as  she  comes  up;  but  the  ribbons  give 
way,  and  I  see  the  terribly  earnest  look 
upon  her  face  as  she  goes  down  again.  Oh, 
my  mother — thought  I — if  you  were  only 
here! 

But  she  rises  again;  this  time  I  thrust 
my  hand  into  her  dress,  and  struggling 
hard,  keep  her  at  the  top  until  I  can  place 


1 68  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR 

my  foot  down  upon  a  projecting  root ;  and, 
so  bracing  myself,  I  drag  her  to  the  bank, 
and  having  climbed  up,  take  hold  of  her 
belt  firmly  with  both  hands,  and  drag  her 
out;  and  poor  Isabel,  choked,  chilled,  and 
wet,  is  lying  upon  the  grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.  The  workmen 
in  the  fields  hear  me,  and  come  down.  One 
takes  Isabel  in  his  arms,  and  I  follow  on 
foot  to  our  uncle's  home  upon  the  hill. 

— "Oh,  my  dear  children !"  says  my 
mother;  and  she  takes  Isabel  in  her  arms; 
and  presently,  with  dry  clothes  and  blazing 
wood-fire,  little  Bella  smiles  again.  I  am 
at  my  mother's  knee. 

"I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  says  Isabel — 
"aunty,  doesn't  Paul  love  me?" 

"I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"I  know  so,"  said  I;  and  kissed  her 
cheek. 

And  how  did  I  know  it?  The  boy  does 
not  ask;  the  man  does.  Oh,  the  freshness, 
the  honesty,  the  vigor  of  a  boy's  heart !  how 
the  memory  of  it  refreshes  like  the  first 
gush  of  spring,  or  the  break  of  an  April 
shower ! 

But  boyhood  has  its  PRIDE  as  well  as  its 
LOVES. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man ;  I  fear 


THE    MORNING  169 

him  when  he  calls  me — "child ;"  I  love  him 
when  he  calls  me — "Paul."  He  is  almost 
always  busy  with  his  books ;  and  when  I 
steal  into  the  library  door,  as  I  sometimes 
do,  with  a  string  of  fish,  or  a  heaping  basket 
of  nuts  to  show  him — he  looks  for  a  mo 
ment  curiously  at  them,  sometimes  takes 
them  in  his  fingers — gives  them  back  to  me, 
and  turns  over  the  leaves  of  his  book.  You 
are  afraid  to  ask  him  if  you  have  not 
worked  bravely ;  yet  you  want  to  do  so. 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and  go  to  your 
mother;  she  scarce  looks  at  your  little 
stores ;  but  she  draws  you  to  her  with  her 
arm,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon  your  forehead. 
Now  your  tongue  is  unloosened ;  that  kiss 
and  that  action  have  done  it ;  you  will  tell 
what  capital  luck  you  have  had ;  and  you 
hold  up  your  tempting  trophies ;  "are  they 
not  great,  mother?"  But  she  is  looking  in 
your  face,  and  not  at  your  prize. 

"Take  them,  mother,"  and  you  lay  the 
basket  upon  her  lap. 

"Thank  you  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them : 
but  you  must  give  some  to  Bella." 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  play 
ful,  cousin  Isabel.  And  we  sit  down  to 
gether  on  the  grass,  and  I  pour  out  my 
stores  between  us.  "You  shall  take,  Bella, 


I7O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

what  you  wish  in  your  apron,  and  then 
when  study  hours  are  over,  we  will  have 
such  a  time  down  by  the  big  rock  in  the 
meadow !" 

"But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me," 
says  Isabel. 

"Bella,"  I  say,  "do  you  love  your  papa?" 

"Yes,"  says  Bella,  "why  not?" 

"Because  he  is  so  cold;  he  does  not  kiss 
you,  Bella,  so  often  as  my  mother  does ; 
and,  besides,  when  he  forbids  your  going 
away,  he  does  not  say,  as  mother  does — my 
little  girl  will  be  tired,  she  had  better  not 
go — but  he  says  only — Isabel  must  not  go. 
I  wonder  what  makes  him  talk  so  ?" 

"Why,  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  doesn't — 
at  any  rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my 
mother  is  sick,  you  know." 

"But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your 
mother,  too.  Come,  Bella,  we  will  go  ask 
her  if  we  may  go." 

And  there  I  am,  the  happiest  of  boys, 
pleading  with  the  kindest  of  mothers.  And 
the  young  heart  leans  into  that  mother's 
heart — none  of  the  void  now  that  will  over 
take  it  like  an  opening  Korah  gulf,  in  the 
years  that  are  to  come.  It  is  joyous,  full, 
and  running  over ! 


THE    MORNING  171 

"You  may  go,"  she  says,  "if  your  uncle  is 
willing." 

"But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him,  I 
do  not  believe  he  loves  me." 

"Don't  say  so,  Paul,"  and  she  draws  you 
to  her  side,  aj  if  she  would  supply  by  her 
own  love  the  lacking  love  of  a  universe. 

"Go,  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask 
him  kindly;  and  if  he  says  no — make  no 
reply." 

And  with  courage,  we  go  hand  in  hand, 
and  steal  in  at  the  library  door.  There  he 
sits — I  seem  to  see  him  now — in  the  old 
wainscoted  room,  covered  over  with  books 
and  pictures ;  and  he  wears  his  heavy- 
rimmed  spectacles,  and  is  poring  over  some 
big  volume,  full  of  hard  words,  that  are  not 
in  any  spelling-book.  We  step  up  softly; 
and  Isabel  lays  her  little  hand  upon  his  arm ; 
and  he  turns,  and  says — "Well,  my  little 
daughter?" 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock 
in  the  meadow  ? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid 
— "we  can  not  go." 

"But  why,  uncle?  It  is  only  a  little  way, 
and  we  will  be  very  careful." 

"I  am  afraid,  my  children ;  do  not  say  any 


1/2  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

more  :  you  can  have  the  pony,  and  Tray,  and 
play  at  home." 

"But,  uncle — " 

"You  need  say  no  more,  my  child." 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and  look 
in  her  eye — my  own  half-filling  with  tears. 
I  feel  that  my  forehead  is  flushed,  and  I  hide 
it  behind  Bella's  tresses — whispering  to  her 
at  the  same  time — "Let  us  go." 

"What,  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking  my 
meaning — "do  you  persuade  her  to  dis 
obey  ?" 

Now  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly — "No, 
sir,  I  didn't !"  And  then  my  rising  pride 
will  not  let  me  say  that  I  wished  only  Isabel 
should  go  out  with  me. 

Bella  cries ;  and  I  shrink  out ;  and  am  not 
easy  until  I  have  run  to  bury  my  head  in  my 
mother's  bosom.  Alas !  pride  can  not  al 
ways  find  such  covert !  There  will  be  times 
when  it  will  harass  you  strangely ;  when  it 
will  peril  friendships — will  sever  old,  stand 
ing  intimacy;  and  then — no  resource  but  to 
feed  on  its  own  bitterness.  Hateful  pride ! 
— to  be  conquered,  as  a  man  would  conquer 
an  enemy,  or  it  will  make  whirlpools  in  the 
current  of  your  affections — nay,  turn  the 
whole  tide  of  the  heart  into  rough,  and  un 
accustomed  channels. 


THE   MORNING  173 

But  boyhood  has  its  GRIEF,  too,  apart 
from  PRIDE. 

You  love  the  old  dog,  Tray;  and  Bella 
loves  him  as  well  as  you.  He  is  a  noble  old 
fellow,  with  shaggy  hair,  and  long  ears,  and 
big  paws,  that  ne  will  put  up  into  your  hand, 
if  you  ask  him.  And  he  never  gets  angry 
when  you  play  with  him,  and  tumble  him 
over  in  the  long  grass,  and  pull  his  silken 
ears.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  he  will  open 
his  mouth,  as  if  he  would  bite,  but  when  he 
gets  your  hand  fairly  in  his  jaws  he  will 
scarce  leave  the  print  of  his  teeth  upon  it. 
He  will  swim,  too,  bravely,  and  bring  ashore 
all  the  sticks  you  throw  upon  the  water ;  and 
when  you  fling  a  stone  to  tease  him,  he 
swims  round  and  round,  and  whines,  and 
looks  sorry  that  he  can  not  find  it. 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of 
nuts,  too,  in  his  mouth,  and  never  spill  one 
of  them ;  and  when  you  come  out  to  your 
uncle's  home  in  the  spring,  after  staying  a 
whole  winter  in  the  town,  he  knows  you — 
old  Tray  does !  And  he  leaps  upon  you, 
and  lays  his  paws  on  your  shoulder,  and 
licks  your  face ;  and  is  almost  as  glad  to 
see  you  as  cousin  Bella  herself.  And  when 
you  put  Bella  on  his  back  for  a  ride,  he  only 
pretends  to  bite  her  little  feet — but  he 


174  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

wouldn't  do  it  for  the  world.  Ay,  Tray  is 
a  noble  old  dog ! 

But  one  summer,  the  farmers  say  that 
some  of  their  sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the 
dogs  have  worried  them ;  and  one  of  them 
comes  to  talk  with  my  uncle  about  it. 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep  ;  you  know 
he  never  did;  and  so  does  nurse;  and  so 
does  Bella ;  for  in  the  spring,  she  had  a  pet 
lamb,  and  Tray  never  worried  little  Fidele. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong 
to  the  neighbors  are  shot ;  though  nobody 
knows  wrho  shot  them ;  and  you  have  great 
fears  about  poor  Tray ;  and  try  to  keep  him 
at  home,  and  fondle  him  more  than  ever. 
But  Tray  will  sometimes  wander  off;  till 
finally,  one  afternoon,  he  comes  back  whin 
ing  piteously,  and  with  his  shoulder  all 
bloody. 

Little  Bella  cries  loud;  and  you  almost 
cry,  as  nurse  dresses  the  wound ;  and  poor 
old  Tray  whines  very  sadly.  You  pat  his 
head,  and  Bella  pats  him ;  and  you  sit  down 
together  by  him  on  the  floor  of  the  porch, 
and  bring  a  rug  for  him  to  lie  upon ;  and 
try  and  tempt  him  with  a  little  milk,  and 
Bella  brings  a  piece  of  cake  for  him — but 
he  will  eat  nothing.  You  sit  up  till  very 
late,  long  after  Bella  has  gone  to  bed,  pat- 


I 


THE    MORNING  1/5 

ting  his  head,  and  wishing  you  could  do 
something  for  poor  Tray ;  but  he  only  licks 
your  hand,  and  whines  more  piteously  than 
ever. 

In  the  morning  you  dress  early  and  hurry 
downstairs;  but  Tray  is  not  lying  on  the 
rug ;  and  you  run  through  the  house  to  find 
him,  and  whistle,  and  call — Tray — Tray! 
At  length  you  see  him  lying  in  his  old  place, 
out  by  the  cherry  tree,  and  you  run  to  him ; 
but  he  does  not  start ;  and  you  lean  down  to 
pat  him — but  he  is  cold,  and  the  dew  is  wet 
upon  him — poor  Tray  is  dead ! 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and 
pat  again  those  glossy  ears,  and  cry;  but 
you  can  not  bring  him  to  life.  And  Bella 
comes,  and  cries  with  you.  You  can  hardly 
bear  to  have  him  put  in  the  ground ;  but 
uncle  says  he  must  be  buried.  So  one  of 
the  workmen  digs  a  grave  under  the  cherry 
tree,  where  he  died — a  deep  grave,  and  they 
round  it  over  with  earth,  and  smooth  the 
sods  upon  it — even  now  I  can  trace  Tray's 
grave. 

You  and  Bella  together  put  up  a  little 
slab  for  a  tombstone  ;  and  she  hangs  flowers 
upon  it,  and  ties  them  there  with  a  bit  of 
ribbon.  You  can  scarce  play  all  that  day; 
and  afterward,  many  weeks  later,  when  you 


REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 


are  rambling  over  the  fields,  or  lingering 
by  the  brook,  throwing  off  sticks  into  the 
eddies,  you  think  of  old  Tray's  shaggy  coat, 
and  of  his  big  paw,  and  of  his  honest  eye; 
and  the  memory  of  your  boyish  grief  comes 
upon  you ;  and  you  say  with  tears,  "Poor 
Tray!"  And  Bella,  too,  in  her  sad  sweet 
tones,  says — "Poor  old  Tray — he  is  dead!" 


THE  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened 
rain;  besides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and 
the  winds  were  getting  harsh,  and  rustling 
among  the  tree-tops  that  shaded  the  house 
most  dismally.  I  did  not  dare  to  listen.  If, 
indeed,  I  were  to  stay  by  the  bright  fires  of 
home,  and  gather  the  nuts  as  they  fell,  and 
pile  up  the  falling  leaves  to  make  great  bon 
fires,  with  Ben  and  the  rest  of  the  boys,  I 
should  have  liked  to  listen,  and  would  have 
braved  the  dismal  morning  with  the  cheer- 
fullest  of  them  all.  For  it  would  have  been 
a  capital  time  to  light  a  fire  in  the  little  oven 
we  had  built  under  the  wall ;  it  would  have 
been  so  pleasant  to  warm  our  fingers  at  it, 
177 


IjS  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

and  to  roast  the  great  russets  on  the  flat 
stones  that  made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.  I  had 
bid  the  town  boys  good-by  the  day  before ; 
my  trunk  was  all  packed ;  I  was  to  go  away 
— to  school.  The  little  oven  would  go  to 
ruin — I  knew  it  would.  I  was  to  leave  my 
home.  I  was  to  bid  my  mother  good-by, 
and  Lilly,  and  Isabel,  and  all  the  rest ;  and 
was  to  go  away  from  them  so  far  that  I 
should  only  know  what  they  were  all  doing 
— in  letters.  It  u'as  sad.  And  then  to  have 
the  clouds  come  over  on  that  morning,  and 
the  winds  sigh  so  dismally ;  oh,  it  was  too 
bad,  I  thought ! 

It  comes  back  to  me  as  I  lie  here  this 
bright  spring  morning  as  if  it  were  only 
yesterday.  I  remember  that  the  pigeons 
skulked  under  the  eaves  of  the  carriage- 
house,  and  did  not  sit,  as  they  used  to  do  in 
summer,  upon  the  ridge;  and  the  chickens 
huddled  together  about  the  stable  doors, 
as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  cold  autumn. 
And  in  the  garden  the  white  hollyhocks 
stood  shivering,  and  bowed  to  the  wind,  as 
if  their  time  had  come.  The  yellow  musk- 
melons  showed  plain  among  the  frost-bitten 
vines,  and  looked  cold  and  uncomfortable. 

— Then  they  were  all  so  kind,  indoors ! 


SCHOOL   DAYS 


The  cook  made  such  nice  things  for  my 
breakfast,  because  little  master  was  going; 
Lilly  would  give  me  her  seat  by  the  fire,  and 
would  put  her  lump  of  sugar  in  my  cup  ; 
and  my  mother  looked  so  smiling,  and  so 
tenderly,  that  I  thought  I  loved  her  more 
than  I  ever  did  before.  Little  Ben  was  so 
gay,  too  ;  and  wanted  me  to  take  his  jack- 
knife,  if  I  wished  it  —  though  he  knew  that 
I  had  a  brand  new  one  in  my  trunk.  The 
old  nurse  slipped  a  little  purse  into  my  hand, 
tied  up  with  a  green  ribbon  —  with  money 
in  it  —  and  told  me  not  to  show  it  to  Ben  or 
Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  who  was  there  on  a 
visit,  would  come  to  stand  by  my  chair, 
when  my  mother  was  talking  to  me  ;  and 
put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  look  up  into  my 
face  ;  but  she  did  not  say  a  word.  I  thought 
it  was  very  odd  ;  and  yet  it  did  not  seem 
odd  to  me  that  I  could  say  nothing  to  her. 
I  dare  say  we  felt  alike. 

At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and  said 
the  coach  had  come  ;  and  there,  sure  enough, 
out  of  the  window,  we  saw  it  —  a  bright  yel 
low  coach,  with  four  white  horses,  and 
band-boxes  all  over  the  top,  with  a  great 
pile  of  trunks  behind.  Ben  said  it  was  a 
grand  coach,  and  that  he  should  like  a  ride 


l8o  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

in  it ;  and  the  old  nurse  came  to  the  door, 
and  said  I  should  have  a  capital  time ;  but, 
somehow,  I  doubted  if  the  nurse  was  talk 
ing  honestly.  I  believe  she  gave  me  an 
honest  kiss  though — and  such  a  hug ! 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's.  Tom 
told  me  to  be  a  man,  and  study  like  a  Tro 
jan  ;  but  I  was  not  thinking  about  study 
then.  There  was  a  tall  boy  in  the  coach, 
and  I  was  ashamed  to  have  him  see  me  cry ; 
so  I  didn't,  at  first.  But  I  remember,  as  I 
looked  back  and  saw  little  Isabel  run  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  street  to  see  the 
coach  go  off,  and  the  curls  floating  behind 
her,  as  the  wind  freshened,  I  felt  my  heart 
leaping  into  my  throat,  and  the  water  com 
ing  into  my  eyes,  and  how  just  then  I 
caught  sight  of  the  tall  boy  glancing  at  me 
— and  how  I  tried  to  turn  it  off  by  looking 
to  see  if  I  could  button  up  my  greatcoat 
a  great  deal  lower  down  than  the  button 
holes  went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use ;  I  put  my  head  out 
of  the  coach  window,  and  looked  back,  as 
the  little  figure  of  Isabel  faded,  and  then 
the  house,  and  the  trees ;  and  the  tears  did 
come ;  and  I  smuggled  my  handkerchief 
outside  without  turning;  so  that  I  could 


SCHOOL   DAYS  l8l 

wipe  my  eyes  before  the  tall  boy  should  see 
me.  They  say  that  these  shadows  of  morn 
ing  fade,  as  the  sun  brightens  into  noon 
day  ;  but  they  are  very  dark  shadows  for 
all  that ! 

Let  the  father  or  the  mother  think  long 
before  they  send  away  their  boy — before 
they  break  the  home-ties  that  make  a  web 
of  infinite  fineness  and  soft  silken  meshes 
around  his  heart,  and  toss  him  aloof  into 
the  boy-world,  where  he  must  struggle  up 
amid  bickerings  and  quarrels,  into  his  age 
of  youth !  There  are  boys,  indeed,  with 
little  fineness  in  the  texture  of  their  hearts, 
and  with  little  delicacy  of  soul ;  to  whom 
the  school  in  a  distant  village  is  but  a  vaca 
tion  from  home ;  and  with  whom  a  return 
revives  all  those  grosser  affections  which 
alone  existed  before  ;  just  as  there  are  plants 
which  will  bear  all  exposure  without  the 
wilting  of  a  leaf,  and  will  return  to  the  hot 
house  life  as  strong  and  as  hopeful  as  ever. 
But  there  are  others  to  whom  the  severance 
from  the  prattle  of  sisters,  the  indulgent 
fondness  of  a  mother,  and  the  unseen  influ 
ences  of  the  home  altar,  gives  a  shock  that 
lasts  forever ;  it  is  wrenching  with  cruel 
hand  what  will  bear  but  little  roughness ; 


l82  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

and  the  sobs  with  which  the  adieux  are  said 
are  sobs  that  may  come  back  in  the  after 
years,  strong,  and  steady,  and  terrible. 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns 
to  sob  early !  Condemn  it  as  sentiment,  if 
you  will ;  talk  as  you  will  of  the  fearless 
ness,  and  strength  of  the  boy's  heart — yet 
there  belong  to  many,  tenderly  strung 
chords  of  affection  which  give  forth  low 
and  gentle  music  that  consoles  and  ripens 
the  ear  for  all  the  harmonies  of  life.  These 
chords  a  little  rude  and  unnatural  tension 
will  break,  and  break  forever.  Watch  your 
boy  then,  if  so  be  he  will  bear  the  strain  ;  try 
his  nature,  if  it  be  rude  or  delicate ;  and,  if 
delicate,  in  God's  name,  do  not,  as  you  value 
your  peace  and  his,  breed  a  harsh  youth 
spirit  in  him  that  shall  take  pride  in  sub 
jugating  and  forgetting  the  delicacy  and 
richness  of  his  finer  affections  ! 

— I  see  now,  looking  into  the  past,  the 
troops  of  boys  who  were  scattered  in  the 
great  play-ground,  as  the  coach  drove  up 
at  night.  The  school  was  in  a  tall,  stately 
building,  with  a  high  cupola  on  the  top, 
where  I  thought  I  would  like  to  go  up. 
The  schoolmaster,  they  told  me  at  home, 
was  kind;  he  said  he  hoped  I  would  be  a 


SCHOOL   DAYS  183 

good  boy,  and  patted  me  on  the  head ;  but 
he  did  not  pat  me  as  my  mother  used  to  do. 
Then  there  was  a  woman,  whom  they  called 
the  matron ;  who  had  a  great  many  ribbons 
in  her  cap,  and  who  shook  my  hand — but 
so  stiffly  that  I  didn't  dare  to  look  up  in  her 
face. 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school 
room,  which  was  in  the  basement,  and  the 
walls  were  all  moldly,  I  remember ;  and 
when  we  passed  a  certain  door,  he  said : 
there  was  the  dungeon ;  how  I  felt !  I  hated 
that  boy ;  but  I  believe  he  is  dead  now. 
Then  the  matron  took  me  up  to  my  room — 
a  little  corner  room,  with  two  beds,  and 
two  windows,  and  a  red  table,  and  closet ; 
and  my  chum  was  about  my  size,  and  wore 
a  queer  roundabout  jacket  with  big  bell 
buttons ;  and  he  called  the  schoolmaster 
"Old  Crikey" — and  kept  me  awake  half  the 
night,  telling  me  how  he  whipped  the 
scholars,  and  how  they  played  tricks  upon 
him.  I  thought  my  chum  was  a  very  un 
common  boy. 

For  a  day  or  two,  the  lessons  were  easy, 
and  it  was  sport  to  play  with  so  many  "fel 
lows."  But  soon  I  began  to  feel  lonely  at 
night  after  I  had  gone  to  bed.  I  used  to 


184  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

wish  I  could  have  my  mother  come  and  kiss 
me ;  after  school,  too,  I  wished  I  could  step 
in  and  tell  Isabel  how  bravely  I  had  got  my 
lessons.  When  I  told  my  chum  this,  he 
laughed  at  me,  and  said  that  was  no  place 
for  "homesick,  white-livered  chaps."  I 
wondered  if  my  chum  had  any  mother. 

We  had  spending  money  once  a  week, 
with  which  we  used  to  go  down  to  the  vil 
lage  store,  and  club  our  funds  together,  to 
make  great  pitchers  of  lemonade.  Some  boys 
would  have  money  besides ;  though  it  was 
against  the  rules ;  and  one,  I  recollect, 
showed  us  a  five-dollar  bill  in  his  wallet — 
and  we  all  thought  he  must  be  very  rich. 

We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village 
church  on  Sundays.  There  were  two  long 
benches  in  the  galleries,  reaching  down  the 
sides  of  the  meeting-house ;  and  on  these  we 
sat.  At  the  first,  I  was  among  the  smallest 
boys,  and  took  a  place  close  to  the  wall, 
against  the  pulpit ;  but  afterward,  as  I  grew 
bigger,  I  was  promoted  to  the  lower  end  of 
the  first  bench.  This  I  never  liked,  because 
it  was  close  by  one  of  the  ushers,  and  be 
cause  it  brought  me  next  to  some  country 
women,  who  wore  stiff  bonnets,  and  eat 
fennel,  and  sung  with  the  choir.  But  there 


SCHOOL   DAYS  185 

was  a  little  black-eyed  girl,  who  sat  over 
behind  the  choir,  that  I  thought  handsome ; 
I  used  to  look  at  her  very  often ;  but  was 
careful  she  should  never  catch  my  eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  cor 
ner  pew,  who  was  pretty ;  and  who  wore  a 
hat  in  the  winter  trimmed  with  fur.  Half 
the  boys  in  the  school  said  they  would 
marry  her  some  day  or  other.  One's  name 
was  Jane,  and  that  of  the  other,  Sophia; 
which  we  thought  pretty  names,  and  cut 
them  on  the  ice,  in  skating  time.  But  I 
didn't  think  either  of  them  so  pretty  as 
Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me:  I  bore  it 
bravely  in  the  school :  but  afterward,  at 
night,  when  my  chum  was  asleep,  I  sobbed 
bitterly  as  1  thought  of  Isabel,  and  Ben,  and 
my  mother,  and  how  much  they  loved  me : 
and  laying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  sobbed 
myself  to  sleep.  In  the  morning  I  was  calm 
enough :  it  was  another  of  the  heart-ties 
broken,  though  I  did  not  know  it  then.  It 
lessened  the  old  attachment  to  home,  be 
cause  that  home  could  neither  protect  me 
nor  soothe  me  with  its  sympathies.  Mem 
ory,  indeed,  freshened  and  grew  strong; 
but  strong  in  bitterness,  and  in  regrets. 


1 86  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

The  boy  whose  love  you  can  not  feed  by 
daily  nourishment  will  find  pride,  self-indul 
gence,  and  an  iron  purpose  coming  in  to 
furnish  other  supply  for  the  soul  that  is  in 
him.  If  he  can  not  shoot  his  branches  into 
the  sunshine,  he  will  become  acclimated  to 
the  shadow,  and  indifferent  to  such  stray 
gleams  of  sunshine  as  his  fortune  may 
vouchsafe. 

Hostilities  would  sometimes  threaten  be 
tween  the  school  and  the  village  boys ;  but 
they  usually  passed  off  with  such  loud  and 
harmless  explosions  as  belong  to  the  wars 
of  our  small  politicians.  The  village  cham 
pions  were  a  hatter's  apprentice,  and  a 
thickset  fellow  who  worked  in  a  tannery. 
We  prided  ourselves  especially  on  one  stout 
boy,  who  wore  a  sailor's  monkey  jacket.  I 
can  not  but  think  how  jaunty  that  stout  boy 
looked  in  that  jacket;  and  what  an  Ajax 
cast  there  was  to  his  countenance !  It  cer 
tainly  did  occur  to  me  to  compare  him  with 
William  Wallace  (Miss  Porter's  William 
Wallace)  and  I  thought  how  I  would  have 
liked  to  have  seen  a  tussle  between  them. 
Of  course,  we  who  were  small  boys,  limited 
ourselves  to  indignant  remark,  and  thought 
"we  should  like  to  see  them  do  it ;"  and 
prepared  clubs  from  the  wood-shed,  after  a 


SCHOOL  DAYS  187 

model  suggested  by  a  New  York  boy,  who 
had  seen  the  clubs  of  the  policemen. 

There  was  one  scholar,  poor  Leslie,  who 
had  friends  in  some  foreign  country,  and 
who  occasionally  received  letters  bearing  a 
foreign  post-mark :  what  an  extraordinary 
boy  that  was — what  astonishing  letters, 
what  extraordinary  parents!  I  wondered 
if  I  should  ever  receive  a  letter  from  "for 
eign  parts?"  I  wondered  if  I  should  ever 
write  one ;  but  this  was  too  much — too  ab 
surd  !  As  if  I,  Paul,  wearing  a  blue  jacket 
with  gilt  buttons,  and  number  four  boots, 
should  ever  visit  those  countries  spoken  of 
in  the  geographies,  and  by  learned  trav 
elers  !  No,  no ;  this  was  too  extravagant ; 
but  I  knew  what  I  would  do,  if  I  lived  to 
come  of  age ;  and  I  vowed  that  I  would — I 
would  go  to  New  York ! 

Number  seven  was  the  hospital,  and  for 
bidden  ground ;  we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of 
horror  of  number  seven.  A  boy  died  there 
once,  and  oh,  how  he  moaned ;  and  what  a 
time  there  was  when  the  father  came ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton, 
who  wore  linsey  gray,  made  a  dam  across 
a  little  brook  by  the  school,  and  whittled 
out  a  saw-mill  that  actually  sawed ;  he  had 
genius.  I  expected  to  see  him  before  now 


l88  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

at  the  head  of  American  mechanics ;  but  I 
learn  with  pain  that  he  is  keeping  a  grocery 
store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  ex 
hibitions,  to  which  all  the  townspeople  came, 
and  among  them  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and 
the  pretty  Sophia  with  fur  around  her  hat. 
My  great  triumph  was  when  I  had  the  part 
of  one  of  Pizarro's  chieftains,  the  evening 
before  I  left  the  school.  How  I  did  look ! 

I  had  a  mustache  put  on  with  burned 
cork,  and  whiskers  very  bushy  indeed ;  and 
I  had  the  militia  coat  of  an  ensign  in  the 
town  company,  with  the  skirts  pinned  up, 
and  a  short  sword  very  dull,  and  crooked, 
which  belonged  to  an  old  gentleman  who 
was  said  to  have  got  it  from  some  privateer, 
who  was  said  to  have  taken  it  from  some 
great  British  admiral  in  the  old  wars ;  and 
the  way  I  carried  that  sword  upon  the  plat 
form  and  the  way  I  jerked  it  out  when  it 
came  to  my  turn  to  say — "Battle!  battle! 
then  death  to  the  armed,  and  chains  for  the 
defenseless  !" — was  tremendous ! 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats 
— black  felt,  with  turkey  feathers — we  took 
our  place  upon  the  top  of  the  coach  to  leave 
the  school.  The  head  master,  in  green 


SCHOOL   DAYS  1 89 

spectacles,  came  out  to  shake  hands  with  us 
— a  very  awful  shaking  of  hands. 

Poor  gentleman ! — he  is  in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  "for  the  old 
school,"  as  the  coach  started ;  and  upon  the 
top  of  the  hill  that  overlooks  the  village,  we 
gave  another  round — and  still  another  for 
the  crabbed  old  fellow  whose  apples  we  had 
so  often  stolen.  I  wonder  if  old  Bulkeley 
is  living  yet  ? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine  trees,  I  re 
called  the  image  of  the  black-eyed  Jane, 
and  of  the  other  little  girl  in  the  corner  pew 
— and  thought  how  I  would  come  back 
after  the  college  days  were  over — a  man, 
with  a  beaver  hat,  and  a  cane,  and  with  a 
splendid  barouche,  and  how  I  would  take 
the  best  chamber  at  the  inn,  and  astonish 
the  old  schoolmaster  by  giving  him  a  fa 
miliar  tap  on  the  shoulder  ;  and  how  I  would 
be  the  admiration,  and  the  wonder  of  the 
pretty  girl  in  the  fur-trimmed  hat !  Alas, 
how  our  thoughts  outrun  our  deeds ! 

For  long — long  years,  I  saw  no  more  of 
my  old  school ;  and  when  at  length  the 
view  came,  great  changes — crashing  tor 
nadoes — had  swept  over  my  path !  I 
thought  no  more  of  startling  the  villagers, 


REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 


or  astonishing  the  black-eyed  girl.  No,  no ! 
I  was  content  to  slip  quietly  through  the 
little  town,  with  only  a  tear  or  two,  as  I  re 
called  the  dead  ones,  and  mused  upon  the 
emptiness  of  life ! 


THE   SEA 


As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs 
and  cares  vanishes  into  the  proud  stateli- 
ness  of  youth.  The  ambition  and  the  rival 
ries  of  the  college  life — its  first  boastful 
importance  as  knowledge  begins  to  dawn 
on  the  wakened  mind,  and  the  ripe,  and  en 
viable  complacency  of  its  senior  dignity — 
all  scud  over  my  memory  like  this  morning 
breeze  along  the  meadows ;  and  like  that, 
too,  bear  upon  their  wing  a  chillness — as  of 
distant  ice-banks. 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood ;  Lilly 
is  living  in  a  distant  home;  and  Isabel  is 
just  blooming  into  that  sweet  age  where 
191 


192  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

womanly  dignity  waits  her  beauty ;  an  age 
that  sorely  puzzles  one  who  has  grown  up 
beside  her — making  him  slow  of  tongue, 
but  very  quick  of  heart. 

As  for  the  rest — let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  head 
lands  have  gone  down  under  the  horizon, 
like  the  city  steeples,  as  you  lose  your 
self  in  the  calm  of  the  country,  or  like 
the  great  thoughts  of  genius,  as  you  slip 
from  the  pages  of  poets  into  your  own  quiet 
reverie. 

The  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left ;  there 
is  nothing  but  water  before,  and  only  water 
behind.  Above  me  are  sailing  clouds,  or 
the  blue  vault,  which  we  call,  with  childish 
license — heaven.  The  sails,  white  and  full, 
like  helping  friends  are  pushing  me  on :  and 
night  and  day  are  distant  with  the  winds 
which  come  and  go — none  know  whence, 
and  none  know  whither.  A  land  bird  flut 
ters  aloft,  weary  with  long  flying;  and 
lost  in  a  world  where  are  no  forests  but 
the  careening  masts,  and  no  foliage  but 
the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  awhile  to  the 
smooth  spars,  till  urged  by  some  homeward 
yearning,  it  bears  off  in  the  face  of  the 
wind,  and  sinks,  and  rises  over  the  angry 
waters,  until  its  strength  is  gone,  and  the 


THE    SEA  193 

blue  waves  gather  the  poor  flatterer  to  their 
cold  and  glassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me 
but  the  waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of 
dolphins ;  all  the  noon,  unless  some  white 
sail — like  a  ghost,  stalks  the  horizon,  there 
is  still  nothing  but  the  rolling  seas;  all  the 
evening,  after  the  sun  has  grown  big  and 
sunk  under  the  water  line,  and  the  moon 
risen,  white  and  cold,  to  glimmer  across  the 
tops  of  the  surging  ocean — there  is  nothing 
but  the  sea  and  the  sky  to  lead  off  thought, 
or  to  crush  it  with  their  greatness. 

Hour  after  hour,  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight 
upon  the  taffrail,  the  great  waves  gather  far 
back,  and  break — and  gather  nearer,  and 
break  louder — and  gather  again,  and  roll 
down  swift  and  terrible  under  the  creaking 
ship,  and  heave  it  up  lightly  upon  their 
swelling  surge,  and  drop  it  gently  to  their 
seething  and  yeasty  cradle — like  an  infant 
in  the  swaying  arms  of  a  mother — or  like 
a  shadowy  memory  upon  the  billows  of 
manly  thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of 
ocean ;  life  lies  open  like  a  book,  and  spreads 
out  as  level  as  the  sea.  Regrets  and  broken 
resolutions  chase  over  the  soul  like  swift- 
winged  night-birds,  and  all  the  unsteady 


194  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

heights  and  the  wastes  of  action  lift  up  dis 
tinct  and  clear  from  the  uneasy  but  limpid 
depths  of  memory. 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon, 
sympathies  are  narrowed  down ;  they  can 
not  range,  as  upon  the  land,  over  a  thousand 
objects.  You  are  strangely  attracted  to 
ward  some  frail  girl,  whose  pallor  has  now 
given  place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the  sea  life. 
You  listen  eagerly  to  the  chance  snatches  of 
a  song  from  below,  in  the  long  morning 
watch.  You  love  to  see  her  small  feet  tot 
tering  on  the  unsteady  deck ;  and  you  love 
greatly  to  aid  her  steps,  and  feel  her  weight 
upon  your  arm,  as  the  ship  lurches  to  a 
heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly 
upon  the  ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive 
them ;  your  morning  salutation  is  like  a 
welcome,  after  absence,  upon  the  shore ; 
and  each  "good-night"  has  the  depth  and 
fullness  of  a  land  "farewell."  And  beauty 
grows  upon  the  ocean ;  you  can  not  cer 
tainly  say  that  the  face  of  the  fair  girl- 
voyager  is  prettier  than  that  of  Isabel;  oh, 
no !  but  you  are  certain  that  you  cast  inno 
cent  and  honest  glances  upon  her  as  you 
steady  her  walk  upon  the  deck,  far  oftener 
than  at  the.  first ;  and  ocean  life  and  sym- 


THE   SEA  195 

pathy  makes  her  kind;  she  does  not  resent 
your  rudeness  one-half  so  stoutly  as  she 
might  upon  the  shore. 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening — 
pleading  first  with  the  mother,  and  standing 
beside  you — her  white  hand  not  very  far 
from  yours  upon  the  rail — look  down  where 
the  black  ship  flings  off  with  each  plunge 
whole  garlands  of  emeralds ;  or  she  will  look 
up  (thinking  perhaps  you  are  looking  the 
same  way)  into  the  skies,  in  search  of  some 
stars — which  were  her  neighbors  at  home. 
And  bits  of  old  tales  will  come  up,  as  if 
they  rode  upon  the  ocean  quietude;  and 
fragments  of  half-forgotten  poems,  tremu 
lously  uttered — either  by  reason  of  the  roll 
ing  of  the  ship,  or  some  accidental  touch  of 
that  white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storms  when  fear  will 
make  strange  and  holy  companionship ;  and 
even  here  my  memory  shifts  swiftly  and 
suddenly. 

— It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers 
are  clustered,  trembling,  below.  Every 
plank  shakes ;  and  the  oak  ribs  groan  as  if 
they  suffered  with  their  toil.  The  hands 
are  all  aloft ;  the  captain  is  forward  shout 
ing  to  the  mate  in  the  cross-trees,  and  I  am 
clinging  to  one  of  the  stanchions  by  the 


196  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

binnacle.  The  ship  is  pitching  madly,  and 
the  waves  are  toppling  up,  sometimes  as 
high  as  the  yard-arm,  and  then  dipping 
away  with  a  whirl  under  our  keel  that 
makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel  quiver. 
The  thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand  can 
nons;  and  at  the  moment  the  sky  is  cleft 
with  a  stream  of  fire  that  glares  over  the 
tops  of  the  waves,  and  glistens  on  the  wet 
decks  and  the  spars — lighting  up  all  so 
plain  that  I  can  see  the  men's  faces  in  the 
main-top,  and  catch  glimpses  of  the  reefers 
on  the  yard-arm,  clinging  like  death;  then 
all  is  horrible  darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  can 
vas  ;  the  waves  crash  against  the  weather- 
bow  like  mountains,  the  wind  howls  through 
the  rigging;  or,  as  a  gasket  gives  way,  the 
sail  bellying  to  leeward,  splits  like  the 
crack  of  a  musket.  I  hear  the  captain  in 
the  lulls,  screaming  out  orders ;  and  the 
mate  in  the  rigging,  screaming  them  over, 
until  the  lightning  comes,  and  the  thunder, 
deadening  their  voices,  as  if  they  were 
chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes  I  see  a  hand  upon 
the  yard-arm  lose  his  foothold,  as  the  ship 
gives  a  plunge,  but  his  arms  are  clinched 
around  the  spar.  Before  I  can  see  any 


THE    SEA  197 

more,  the  blackness  comes,  and  the  thunder, 
with  a  crash  that  half-deafens  me.  I  think 
I  hear  a  low  cry,  as  the  mutterings  die 
away  in  the  distance ;  and  the  next  flash  of 
lightning,  which  comes  in  an  instant,  I  see 
upon  the  top  of  one  of  the  waves  alongside, 
the  poor  reefer  who  has  fallen.  The  light 
ning  glares  upon  his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  run 
ning  rigging  as  he  fell,  and  I  see  it  slipping 
off  the  coil  upon  the  deck.  I  shout  madly 
— man  overboard  ! — and — catch  the  rope, 
when  I  can  see  nothing  again.  The  sea  is 
too  high,  and  the  man  too  heavy  for  me.  I 
shout,  and  shout,  and  shout,  and  feel  the 
perspiration  starting  in  great  beads  from 
my  forehead  as  the  line  slips  through  my 
fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft, 
and  takes  hold  with  me ;  and  the  cook 
comes,  as  the  coil  is  nearly  spent,  and  we 
pull  together  upon  him.  It  is  desperate 
work  for  the  sailor,  for  the  ship  is  drifting 
at  a  prodigious  rate,  but  he  clings  like  a  dy 
ing  man. 

By  and  by  at  a  flash,  we  see  him  on  a 
crest,  two  oars'  length  away  from  the  vessel. 

"Hold  on,  my  man !"  shouts  the  captain. 

"For  God's  sake,  be  quick !"  says  the  poor 


198  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

fellow;  and  he  goes  down  in  a  trough  of 
the  sea.  We  pull  the  harder,  and  the  cap 
tain  keeps  calling  to  him  to  keep  up  cour 
age,  and  hold  strong.  But  in  the  hush  we 
hear  him  say — "I  can't  hold  out  much 
longer — I'm  most  gone !" 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man 
where  we  can  lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only 
waiting  for  a  good  lift  of  the  sea  to  bring 
him  up,  when  the  poor  fellow  groans  out 
— "It's  of  no  use — I  can't — good-by !"  And 
a  wave  tosses  the  end  of  the  rope,  clean 
upon  the  bulwarks. 

At  the  next  flash  I  see  him  going  down 
under  the  water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at 
heart ;  and  wedging  myself  into  my  narrow 
berth,  I  try  to  sbep.  But  the  thunder  and 
the  tossing  of  the  ship,  and  the  face  of  the 
drowning  man,  as  he  said  good-by — peer 
ing  at  me  from  every  corner  will  not  let  me 
sleep. 

Afterward,  come  quiet  seas,  over  which 
we  boom  along,  leaving  in  our  track,  at 
night,  a  broad  path  of  phosphorescent 
splendor.  The  sailors  bustle  around  the 
decks  as  if  they  had  lost  no  comrade ;  and 
the  voyagers  losing  the  pallor  of  fear,  look 
out  earnestly  for  the  land. 


THE  SEA  199 

At  length  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted 
fields  of  Britain;  and  in  a  day  more,  the 
bright  face,  looking  out  beside  me,  sparkles 
at  sight  of  the  sweet  cottages,  which  lie 
along  the  green  Essex  shores.  Broad- 
sailed  yachts,  looking  strangely,  yet  beauti 
fully,  glide  upon  the  waters  of  the  Thames, 
like  swans ;  black,  square-rigged  colliers 
from  the  Tyne,  lie  grouped  in  sooty  cohorts  ; 
and  heavy,  three-decked  Indiamen — of 
which  I  had  read  in  story  books — drift 
slowly  down  with  the  tide.  Dingy  steam 
ers,  with  white  pipes,  and  with  red  pipes, 
whiz  past  us  to  the  sea,  and  now  my 
eye  rests  on  the  great  palace  of  Greenwich ; 
I  see  the  wooden-legged  pensioners  smok 
ing  under  the  palace  walls ;  and  above  them 
upon  the  hill — as  Heaven  is  true — that  old, 
fabulous  Greenwich,  the  great  center  of 
schoolboy  longitude. 

Presently,  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky 
smoke  heaves  up  the  vast  dome  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  the  tall  column  of  the  fire,  and 
the  white  turrets  of  London  Tower.  Our 
ship  glides  through  the  massive  dock  gates, 
and  is  moored,  amid  the  forest  of  masts 
which  bears  golden  fruit  for  Britons. 

That  night,  I  sleep  far  away  from  "the 
old  school,"  and  far  away  from  the  valley 


2OO  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

of  Hillfarm ;  long,  and  late,  I  toss  upon  my 
bed,  with  sweet  visions  in  my  mind,  of  Lon 
don  Bridge,  and  Temple  Bar,  and  Jane 
Shore,  and  Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal,  and 
King  Jamie.  And  when  at  length  I  fall 
asleep  my  dreams  are  very  pleasant,  but 
they  carry  me  across  the  ocean,  away  from 
the  ship — away  from  London — away  even 
from  the  fair  voyager — to  the  old  oaks,  and 
to  the  brooks,  and — to  thy  side — sweet 
Isabel ! 


THE    FATHERLAND 

THERE  is  a  great  contrast  between  the 
easy  deshabille  of  the  ocean  life,  and 
the  prim  attire,  and  conventional  spirit  of 
the  land.  In  the  first,  there  are  but  few  to 
please,  and  these  few  are  known,  and  they 
know  us ;  upon  the  shore,  there  is  a  world 
to  humor,  and  a  world  of  strangers.  In  a 
brilliant  drawing-room  looking  out  upon 
the  site  of  old  Charing-Cross,  and  upon  the 
one-armed  Nelson,  standing  aloft  at  his  coil 
of  rope,  I  take  leave  of  the  fair  voyager  of 
the  sea.  Her  white  neglige  has  given  place 
to  silks ;  and  the  simple  careless  coiffe  of 
the  ocean,  is  replaced  by  the  rich  dressing 
of  a  modiste.  Yet  her  face  has  the  same 
20 1 


202  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR 

bloom  upon  it ;  and  her  eye  sparkles,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  with  a  higher  pride ;  and  her 
little  hand  has  I  think  a  tremulous  quiver 
in  it  (I  am  sure  my  own  has) — as  I  bid  her 
adieu,  and  take  up  the  trail  of  my  wander 
ings  into  the  heart  of  England. 

Abuse  her,  as  we  will — pity  her  starving 
peasantry,  as  we  may — smile  at  her  court 
pageantry,  as  much  as  wre  like — old  Eng 
land  is  dear  old  England  still.  Her  cottage 
homes,  her  green  fields,  her  castles,  her 
blazing  firesides,  her  church  spires  are  as 
old  as  songs ;  and  by  song  and  story,  we  in 
herit  them  in  our  hearts.  This  joyous  boast, 
was,  I  remember,  upon  my  lip,  as  I  first 
trod  upon  the  rich  meadow  of  Runnymede ; 
and  recalled  that  GREAT  CHARTER:  wrested 
from  the  king,  which  made  the  first  step 
ping  stone  toward  the  bounties  of  our  west 
ern  freedom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over 
the  Western  Saxon,  as  he  strolls  first  along 
the  green  by-lanes  of  England,  and  scents 
the  hawthorn  in  its  April  bloom,  and  lingers 
at  some  quaint  stile  to  watch  the  rooks 
wheeling  and  cawing  around  some  lofty 
elm-tops,  and  traces  the  carved  gables  of 
some  old  country  mansion  that  lies  in  their 
shadow,  and  hums  some  fragment  of  charm- 


THE   FATHERLAND  2O3 

ing  English  poesy,  that  seems  made  for  the 
scene.  This  is  not  sight-seeing,  nor  travel ; 
it  is  dreaming  sweet  dreams,  that  are  fed 
with  the  old  life  of  Books. 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream, 
by  a  swift  step ;  and  winding  and  rising  be 
tween  the  blooming  hedgerows,  I  come 
presently  to  the  sight  of  some  sweet  valley 
below  me,  where  a  thatched  hamlet  lies 
sleeping  in  the  April  sun,  as  quietly  as  the 
dead  lie  in  history ;  no  sound  reaches  me 
save  the  occasional  clink  of  the  smith's  ham 
mer,  or  the  hedgeman's  bill-hook,  or  the 
plowman's  "ho-tup,"  from  the  hills.  At 
evening,  listening  to  the  nightingale,  I 
stroll  wearily  into  some  close-nestled  vil 
lage,  that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  roll 
ing  height.  It  is  far  away  from  the  great 
lines  of  travel — and  the  children  stop  their 
play  to  have  a  look  at  me,  and  the  rosy- 
faced  girls  peep  from  behind  half  opened 
doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on 
either  side  of  the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the 
Eagle  and  the  Falcon — which  guardian 
birds,  some  native  Dick  Tinto  has  pictured 
upon  the  swinging  signboard  at  the  corner. 
The  hostess  is  half  ready  to  embrace  me, 
and  treats  me  like  a  prince  in  disguise.  She 


2O4  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

shows  me  through  the  tap-room  into  a  little 
parlor,  with  white  curtains,  and  with  neatly 
framed  prints  of  the  old  patriarchs.  Here, 
alone  beside  a  brisk  fire,  kindled  with  furze, 
I  watch  the  white  flame  leaping  playfully 
through  the  black  lumps  of  coal,  and  enjoy 
the  best  fare  of  the  Eagle  and  the  Falcon. 
If  too  late,  or  too  early  for  her  garden  stock, 
the  hostess  bethinks  herself  of  some  small 
pot  of  jelly  in  an  out-of-the-way  cupboard 
of  the  house,  and  setting  it  temptingly  m 
her  prettiest  dish,  she  coyly  slips  it  upon  the 
white  cloth,  with  a  modest  regret  that  it  is 
no  better ;  and  a  little  evident  satisfaction — 
that  it  is  so  good. 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing 
fire,  as  quiet  as  the  cat  that  has  come  in,  to 
bear  me  company;  and  at  bedtime,  I  find 
sheets,  as  fresh  as  the  air  of  the  mountains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months  later, 
I  am  walking  under  a  wood  of  Scottish  firs. 
It  is  near  nightfall,  and  the  fir  tops  are 
swaying,  and  sighing  hoarsely,  in  the  cool 
wind  of  the  Northern  Highlands.  There  is 
none  of  the  smiling  landscape  of  England 
about  me ;  and  the  crags  of  Edinburgh  and 
Castle  Stirling,  and  sweet  Perth,  in  its  silver 
valley,  are  far  to  the  southward.  The 
larches  of  Athol  and  Bruar  Water,  and  that 


THE    FATHERLAND  2O5 

highland  gem — Dunkeld,  are  passed.  I  am 
tired  with  a  morning's  tramp  over  Culloden 
Moor ;  and  from  the  edge  of  the  wood  there 
stretches  before  me,  in  the  cool  gray  twi 
light,  broad  fields  of  heather.  In  the  middle, 
there  rise  against  the  night-sky,  the  turrets 
of  a  castle ;  it  is  Castle  Cawdor,  where  King 
Duncan  was  murdered  by  Macbeth. 

The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary 
step  ;  and  emerging  from  the  wood,  I  bound 
over  the  springy  heather.  In  an  hour,  I 
clamber  a  broken  wall,  and  come  under  the 
frowning  shadows  of  the  castle.  The  ivy 
clambers  up  here  and  there,  and  shakes  its 
uncropped  branches,  and  its  dried  berries 
over  the  heavy  portal.  I  cross  the  moat, 
and  my  step  makes  the  chains  of  the  draw 
bridge  rattle.  All  is  kept  in  the  old  state ; 
only  in  lieu  of  the  warder's  horn,  I  pull  at 
the  warder's  bell.  The  echoes  ring,  and  die 
in  the  stone  courts  ;  but  there  is  no  one  astir, 
nor  is  there  a  light  at  any  of  the  castle  win 
dows.  I  ring  again,  and  the  echoes  come, 
and  blend  with  the  rising  night  wind  that 
sighs  around  the  turrets,  as  they  sighed  that 
night  of  murder.  I  fancy — it  must  be  a 
fancy — that  I  hear  an  owl  scream ;  I  am 
sure  that  I  hear  the  crickets  cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the 


2O6  REVERIES  OF   A   BACHELOR 

moat ;  a  little  dark  water  lies  in  the  bottom. 
The  walls  rise  from  it  gray  and  stern  in 
the  deepening  shadows.  I  hum  chance  pas 
sages  of  Macbeth,  listening  for  the  echoes 
• — echoes  from  the  wall ;  and  echoes  from 
that  far-away  time,  when  I  stole  the  first 
reading  of  the  tragic  story. 

"Did'st  thou  not  hear  a  noise? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  you  not  speak? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended? 
Ay. 
. Hark!" 

And  the  sharp  echo  comes  back — 
"Hark!"  And  at  dead  of  night,  in  the 
thatched  cottage  under  the  castle  walls, 
where  a  dark-faced,  Gaelic  woman,  in  plaid 
turban,  is  my  hostess,  I  wake,  startled  by 
the  wind,  and  my  trembling  lips  say  invol 
untarily— "hark  !" 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the 
sweet  county  of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are  like 
emerald  ;  its  threads  of  waters  stretched  over 
the  fields,  by  their  provident  husbandry, 
glisten  in  the  broad  glow  of  summer,  like 
skeins  of  silk.  A  bland  old  farmer,  of  the 
true  British  stamp,  is  my  host.  On  mar- 


THE   FATHERLAND  207 

ket  days  he  rides  over  to  the  old  town  of 
Totness,  in  a  trim,  black  farmer's  cart ;  and 
he  wears  glossy-topped  boots,  and  a  broad- 
brimmed  white  hat.  I  take  a  vast  deal  of 
pleasure  in  listening  to  his  honest,  straight 
forward  talk  about  the  improvements  of  the 
day  and  the  state  of  the  nation.  I  some 
times  get  upon  one  of  his  nags,  and  ride  off 
with  him  over  his  fields,  or  visit  the  homes 
of  the  laborers,  which  show  their  gray  roofs, 
in  every  charming  nook  of  the  landscape. 
At  the  parish  church  I  doze  against  the 
high  pew  backs,  as  I  listen  to  the  see-saw 
tones  of  the  drawling  curate;  and  in  my 
half  wakeful  moments,  the  withered  holly 
sprigs  (not  removed  since  Easter)  grow 
upon  my  vision,  into  Christmas  boughs,  and 
preach  sermons  to  me — of  the  days  of  old. 

Sometimes,  I  wander  far  over  the  hills 
into  a  neighboring  park ;  and  spend  hours 
on  hours  under  the  sturdy  oaks,  watching 
the  sleek  fallow  deer  gazing  at  me  with 
their  soft  liquid  eyes.  The  squirrels,  too, 
play  above  me,  with  their  daring  leaps,  ut 
terly  careless  of  my  presence,  and  the  pheas 
ants  whir  away  from  my  very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls — I  re 
member  it  very  well — when  I  was  idling 
along,  thinking  of  the  broad  reach  of  water 


2O8  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

that  lay  between  me  and  that  old  forest 
home — and  beating  off  the  daisy  heads  with 
my  cane — I  heard  the  tramp  of  horses  com 
ing  up  one  of  the  forest  avenues.  The 
sound  was  unusual,  for  the  family,  I  had 
been  told,  was  still  in  town,  and  no  right  of 
way  lay  through  the  park.  There  they  were, 
however :  I  was  sure  it  must  be  the  family, 
from  the  careless  way  in  which  they  came 
sauntering  up. 

First,  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came 
bounding  toward  me — gazed  a  moment,  and 
turned  to  watch  the  approach  of  the  little 
cavalcade.  Next  was  an  elderly  gentleman 
mounted  upon  a  spirited  hunter,  attended 
by  a  boy  of  some  dozen  years,  who  managed 
his  pony  with  a  grace,  that  is  a  part  of  the 
English  boy's  education.  Then  followed 
two  older  lads,  and  a  traveling  phaeton  in 
which  sat  a  couple  of  elderly  ladies.  But 
what  most  drew  my  attention  was  a  girlish 
figure,  that  rode  beyond  the  carriage,  upon 
a  sleek-limbed  gray.  There  was  something 
in  the  easy  grace  of  her  attitude,  and  the 
rich  glow  that  lit  up  her  face — heightened 
as  it  was,  by  the  little  black  riding  cap,  re 
lieved  with  a  single  flowing  plume — that 
kept  my  eye.  It  was  strange,  but  I  thought 
that  I  had  seen  such  a  figure  before,  and 


THE    FATHERLAND  2OO, 

such  a  face,  and  such  an  eye ;  and  as  I  made 
the  ordinary  salutation  of  a  stranger,  and 
caught  her  smile,  I  could  have  sworn  that  it 
was  she — my  fair  companion  of  the  ocean. 
The  truth  flashed  upon  me  in  a  moment. 
She  was  to  visit,  she  had  told  me,  a  friend 
in  the  south  of  England ;  and  this  was  the 
friend's  home ;  and  one  of  the  ladies  of  the 
carriage  was  her  mother ;  and  one  of  the 
lads,  the  schoolboy  brother,  who  had  teased 
her  on  the  sea. 

I  recall  now  perfectly  her  frank  manner, 
as  she  ungloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  wel 
come.  I  strolled  beside  them  to  the  steps. 
Old  Devon  had  suddenly  renewed  its  beau 
ties  for  me.  I  had  much  to  tell  her,  of  the 
little  outlying  nooks,  which  my  wayward 
feet  had  led  me  to:  and  she — as  much  to 
ask.  My  stay  with  the  bland  old  farmer 
lengthened;  and  two  days'  hospitalities  at 
the  Park  ran  over  into  three,  and  four. 
There  was  hard  galloping  down  those  ave 
nues  ;  and  new  strolls,  not  at  all  lonely,  un 
der  the  sturdy  oaks.  The  long  summer  twi 
light  of  England  used  to  find  a  very  happy 
fellow  lingering  on  the  garden  terrace — 
looking,  now  at  the  rookery,  where  the  be 
lated  birds  quarreled  for  a  resting  place, 
and  now  down  the  long  forest  vista,  gray 


2IO  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

with  distance,  and  closed  with  the  white 
spire  of  Madbury  church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one 
— very  fast ;  and  it  is  not  so  easy,  as  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Charing  Cross,  to  say — 
adieu !  But  it  is  said — very  sadly  said ;  for 
God  only  knows  how  long  it  is  to  last.  And 
as  I  rode  slowly  down  toward  the  lodge 
after  my  leave-taking,  I  turned  back  again, 
and  again,  and  again.  I  thought  I  saw  her 
standing  still  upon  the  terrace,  though  it 
was  almost  dark;  and  I  thought — it  could 
hardly  have  been  an  illusion — that  I  saw 
something  white  waving  from  her  hand. 

Her  name — as  if  I  could  forget  it — was 
Caroline;  her  mother  called  her — Carry.  I 
wondered  how  it  would  seem  for  me  to  call 
her — Carry!  I  tried  it — it  sounded  well. 
I  tried  it — over  and  over — until  I  came  too 
near  the  lodge.  There  I  threw  a  half  crown 
to  the  woman  who  opened  the  gate  for  me. 
She  courtesied  low,  and  said — "God  bless 
you,  sir !" 

I  liked  her  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  a 
guinea  for  it:  and  that  night — whether  it 
was  the  old  woman's  benediction,  or  the 
waving  scarf  upon  the  terrace,  I  do  not 
know — but  there  was  a  charm  upon  my 


THE   FATHERLAND  211 

thought,  and  my  hope,  as  if  an  angel  had 
been  near  me. 

It  passed  away  though  in  my  dreams  ;  for 
I  dreamed  that  I  saw  the  sweet  face  of  Bella 
in  an  English  park,  and  that  she  wore  a 
black-velvet  riding  cap,  with  a  plume;  and 
I  came  up  to  her  and  murmured,  very 
sweetly,  I  thought — "Carry,  dear  Carry!" 
and  she  started,  looked  sadly  at  me,  and 
turned  away.  I  ran  after  her,  to  kiss  her  as 
I  did  when  she  sat  upon  my  mother's  lap, 
on  the  day  when  she  came  near  drowning: 
I  longed  to  tell  her,  as  I  did  then — I  do  love 
you  But  she  turned  her  tearful  face  upon 
me,  I  dreamed ;  and  then — I  saw  no  more. 


— I  REMEMBER  the  very  words — "non 
parlo  Francese,  Signer e — I  do  not  speak 
French,  Signor" — said  the  stout  lady — "but 
my  daughter,  perhaps,  will  understand 
you." 

And  she  called  out — "Enrica! — Enrica! 
venite,  subito!  c'  e  un  forestiere" 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light-brown 
hair  falling  carelessly  over  her  shoulders, 
her  rich,  hazel  eye  twinkling  and  full  of 
life,  the  color  coming  and  going  upon  her 
transparent  cheek,  and  her  bosom  heaving 
with  her  quick  step.  With  one  hand  she 
put  back  the  scattered  locks  that  had  fallen 
over  her  forehead,  while  she  laid  the  other 
213 


JL 


214  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

gently  upon  the  arm  of  her  mother,  and 
asked  in  that  sweet  music  of  the  south — 
"cosa  volet e,  mamma?" 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in 
many  a  day;  and  this,  notwithstanding  I 
was  in  Rome,  and  had  come  that  very  morn 
ing  from  the  Palace  of  Borghese. 

The  stout  lady  was  my  hostess,  and  En- 
rica — so  fair,  so  young,  so  unlike  in  her 
beauty,  to  other  Italian  beauties,  was  my 
landlady's  daughter.  The  house  was  one  of 
those  tall  houses — very,  very  old  which 
stand  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  Corso, 
looking  out  upon  the  Piazzo  di  Colonna. 
The  staircases  were  very  tall  and  dirty,  and 
they  were  narrow  and  dark.  Four  flights 
of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the  corridor  where 
they  lived.  A  little  trap  was  in  the  door ; 
and  there  was  a  bell-rope,  at  the  least  touch 
of  which,  I  was  almost  sure  to  hear  tripping 
feet  run  along  the  stone  floor  within,  and 
then  to  see  the  trap  thrown  slyly  back,  and 
those  deep  hazel  eyes  looking  out  upon  me ; 
and  then  the  door  would  open,  and  along 
the  corridor,  under  the  daughter's  guidance 
(until  I  had  learned  the  way),  I  passed  to 
my  Roman  home.  I  was  a  long  time  learn 
ing  the  way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso, 


A   ROMAN    GIRL  215 

and  I  could  catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the 
top  of  the  tall  column  of  Antoninus,  and  of 
a  fragment  of  the  palace  of  the  governor. 
My  parlor,  which  was  separated  from  the 
apartments  of  the  family  by  a  narrow  corri 
dor,  looked  upon  a  small  court,  hung 
around  with  balconies.  From  the  upper 
one  a  couple  of  black-eyed  girls  are  occa 
sionally  looking  out,  and  they  can  almost 
read  the  title  of  my  book,  when  I  sit  by  the 
window.  Below  are  three  or  four  blooming 
ragazze,  who  are  dark-eyed,  and  have  Ro 
man  luxuriance  of  hair.  The  youngest  is  a 
friend  of  our  Enrica,  and  is  of  course  fre 
quently  looking  up  with  all  the  innocence 
in  the  world,  to  see  if  Enrica  may  be  look 
ing  out. 

Night  after  night  a  bright  blaze  glows 
upon  my  hearth,  of  the  alder  faggots  which 
they  bring  from  the  Albanian  hills.  Night 
after  night,  too,  the  family  come  in  to  aid 
my  blundering  speech  and  to  enjoy  the  rich 
sparkling  of  my  faggot  fire.  Little  Cesare, 
a  dark-faced  Italian  boy,  takes  up  his  posi 
tion  with  pencil  and  slate,  and  draws  by  the 
light  of  the  blaze  genii  and  castles.  The  old 
one-eyed  teacher  of  Enrica  lays  his  snuff 
box  upon  the  table,  and  his  handkerchief 
across  his  lap,  and  with  his  spectacles  upon 


2l6  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 


his  nose,  and  his  big  fingers  on  the  lesson, 
runs  through  the  French  tenses  of  the  verb 
amare.  The  father,  a  sallow-faced,  keen- 
eyed  man,  with  true  Italian  visage,  sits  with 
his  arms  upon  the  elbows  of  his  chair,  and 
talks  of  the  pope,  or  of  the  weather.  A 
spruce  count  from  the  Marches  of  Ancona, 
wears  a  heavy  watch  seal,  and  reads  Dante 
with  furore.  The  mother,  with  arms 
akimbo,  looks  proudly  upon  her  daughter, 
and  counts  her,  as  well  she  may,  a  gem 
among  the  Roman  beauties. 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blazing 
on  one  side  ;  there  was  scarce  room  for  but 
three  upon  the  other.  Signor  il  maestro 
was  one  —  then  Enrica,  and  next  —  how  wrell 
I  remember  it  —  came  myself.  For  I  could 
sometimes  help  Enrica  to  a  word  of  French  ; 
and  far  oftener  she  could  help  me  to  a  word 
of  Italian.  Her  face  was  rich,  and  full  of 
feeling;  I  usel  greatly  to  love  to  watch  the 
puzzled  expressions  that  passed  over  her 
forehead,  as  the  sense  of  some  hard  phrase 
escaped  her  ;  and  better  still,  to  see  the 
happy  smile,  as  she  caught  at  a  glance,  the 
thought  of  some  old  scholastic  Frenchman, 
and  transferred  it  into  the  liquid  melody  of 
her  speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and 

J 


I 

A   ROMAN    GIRL  217 

only  that  very  autumn  was  escaped  from 
the  thraldom  of  a  convent,  upon  the  skirts 
of  Rome.  She  knew  nothing  of  life,  but  the 
life  of  feeling-;  and  all  thoughts  of  happi 
ness  lay  as  yet  in  her  childish  hopes.  It  was 
pleasant  to  look  upon  her  face ;  and  it  was 
still  more  pleasant  to  listen  to  that  sweet 
Roman  voice.  What  a  rich  flow  of  superla 
tives,  and  endearing  diminutives,  from  those 
vermilion  lips !  Who  would  not  have  loved 
the  study,  and  who  would  not  have  loved — 
without  meaning  it — the  teacher  ? 

In  those  days  I  did  not  linger  long  at  the 
tables  of  lame  Pietro  in  the  Via  Condotti: 
but  would  hurry  back  to  my  little  Roman 
parlor — the  fire  was  so  pleasant!  And  it 
was  so  pleasant  to  greet  Enrica  with  her 
mother,  even  before  the  one-eyed  maestro 
had  come  in ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  unfold 
the  book  between  us,  and  to  lay  my  hand 
upon  the  page — a  small  page — where  hers 
lay  already.  And  when  she  pointed  wrong, 
it  was  pleasant  to  correct  her — over  and 
over;  insisting  that  her  hand  should  be 
here,  and  not  there,  and  lifting  those  little 
fingers  from  one  page,  and  putting  them 
down  upon  the  other.  And  sometimes,  half 
provoked  with  my  fault-finding  she  would 
pat  my  hand  smartly  with  hers ;  but  when  I 


2l8  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

looked  in  her  face  to  know  what  that  could 
mean,  she  would  meet  my  eye  with  such  a 
kind  submission,  and  half  earnest  regret,  as 
made  me  not  only  pardon  the  offense — but 
tempt  me  to  provoke  it  again. 

Through  all  the  days  of  Carnival,  when  I 
rode  pelted  with  confetti,  and  pelting  back, 
my  eyes  used  to  wander  up,  from  a  long 
way  off,  to  that  tall  house  upon  the  Corso, 
where  I  was  sure  to  meet,  again  and  again, 
those  forgiving  eyes  and  that  soft  brown 
hair,  all  gathered  under  the  little  brown 
sombrero,  set  off  with  one  pure  white 
plume.  And  her  hand  full  of  bon-bons,  she 
would  shake  at  me  threateningly ;  and 
laugh — a  musical  laugh — as  I  bowed  my 
head  to  the  assault,  and  recovering  from 
the  shower  of  missiles,  would  turn  to  throw 
my  stoutest  bouquet  at  her  balcony.  At 
night  I  would  bear  home  to  the  Roman  par 
lor  my  best  trophy  of  the  day,  as  a  guerdon 
for  Enrica;  and  Enrica  would  be  sure  to 
render  in  acknowledgment,  some  carefully 
hidden  flowers,  the  prettiest  that  her  beauty 
had  won. 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights, 
she  arrays  herself  in  the  costume  of  the  Al^ 
banian  water-carriers ;  and  nothing,  one 


A  ROMAN   GIRL 


would  think,  could  be  prettier  than  the 
laced  crimson  jacket,  and  the  strange  head 
gear  with  its  trinkets,  and  the  short  skirts 
leaving  to  view  as  delicate  an  ankle  as  could 
be  found  in  Rome.  Upon  another  night, 
she  glides  into  my  little  parlor,  as  we  sit  by 
the  blaze,  in  a  close  velvet  bodice,  and  with 
a  Swiss  hat  caught  up  by  a  looplet  of  silver, 
and  adorned  with  a  full-blown  rose  —  noth 
ing  you  think  could  be  prettier  than  this. 
Again,  in  one  of  her  girlish  freaks,  she 
robes  herself  like  a  nun  ;  and  with  the  heavy 
black  serge,  for  dress,  and  the  funereal  veil 
—  relieved  only  by  the  plain  white  ruffle  of 
her  cap  —  you  wish  she  were  always  a  nun. 
But  the  wish  vanishes,  when  you  see  her  in 
a  pure  white  muslin,  with  a  wreath  of  or 
ange  blossoms  about  her  forehead,  and  a 
single  white  rose-bud  in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Enrica  keeps  a 
pot  or  two  of  flowers,  which  bloom  all  win 
ter  long  ;  and  each  morning  I  find  upon  my 
table  a  fresh  rosebud  ;  each  night,  I  bear 
back  for  thank-offering  the  prettiest  bou 
quet  that  can  be  found  in  the  Via  Conditti. 
The  quiet  fireside  evenings  come  back;  in 
which  my  hand  seeks  its  wonted  place  upon 
her  book;  and  my  other  will  creep  around 


22O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

upon  the  back  of  Enrica's  chair,  and  Enrica 
will  look  indignant — and  then  all  forgive 
ness. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  packet  of  let 
ters — ah,  what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my  big 
armchair,  there  before  the  crackling  faggots, 
with  the  pleasant  rustle  of  that  silken  dress 
beside  me,  and  run  over  a  second,  and  a 
third  time,  those  mute  paper  missives,  which 
bore  to  me  over  so  many  miles  of  water,  the 
words  of  greeting,  and  of  love.  It  would 
be  worth  traveling  to  the  shores  of  the 
yEgean,  to  find  one's  heart  quickened  into 
such  life  as  the  ocean  letters  will  make. 
Enrica  threw  down  her  book,  and  wondered 
what  could  be  in  them — and  snatched  one 
from  my  hand,  and  looked  with  sad,  but 
vain  intensity  over  that  strange  scrawl. 
What  can  it  be  ?  said  she ;  and  she  laid  her 
finger  upon  the  little  half  line — "Dear 
Paul." 

I  told  her  it  was — "Caro  mio." 

Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap  and  looked 
in  my  face ;  "It  is  from  your  mother  ?"  said 
she. 

"No,"  said  I. 

"From  your  sister?"  said  she. 

"Alas,  no!" 

"//  vostro  fratello,  dunque?" 


A   ROMAN    GIRL  221 

"Nemmeno" — said  I,  "not  from  a  brother 
either." 

She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up 
her  book ;  and  presently  she  laid  the  book 
down  again ;  and  looked  at  the  letter,  and 
then  at  me — and  went  out. 

She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening; 
in  the  morning,  there  was  no  rose-bud  on 
my  table.  And  when  I  came  at  night,  with 
a  bouquet  from  Pietro's  at  the  corner,  she 
asked  me — "who  had  written  my  letter  ?" 

"A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

"A  lady  ?"  continued  she. 

"A  lady,"  said  I. 

"Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she,  and 
put  it  in  my  hands. 

"But,  Enrica,  she  has  plenty  of  flowers ; 
she  lives  among  them,  and  each  morning 
her  children  gather  them  by  scores  to  make 
garlands  of." 

Enrica  put  her  ringers  within  my  hand  to 
take  again  the  bouquet ;  and  for  a  moment  I 
held  both  fingers  and  flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  at  Rome  in  that  time,  who 
afterward  died  between  Ancona  and  Cor 
inth  ;  we  were  sitting  one  day  upon  a  block 
of  tufa  in  the  middle  of  the  Coliseum,  look 
ing  up  at  the  shadows  which  the  waving 


222  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 


shrubs  upon  the  southern  wall  cast  upon  the 
ruined  arcades  within,  and  listening  to  the 
chirping  sparrows  that  lived  upon  the  wreck 
—when  he  said  to  me  suddenly — "Paul,  you 
love  the  Italian  girl." 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"I  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you," 
said  he  soberly. 

"She  has  a  very  warm  heart,  I  believe," 
said  I. 

"Ay,"  said  he. 

"But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl," 
continued  I. 

"They  are  not,"  said  my  friend ;  and  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off 
drawing  diagrams  with  his  cane;  "I  have 
seen,  Paul,  more  than  you  of  this  southern 
nature.  The  Italian  girl  of  fifteen  is  a 
woman ;  an  impassioned,  sensitive,  tender 
creature — yet  still  a  woman ;  you  are  loving 
— if  you  love — a  full-grown  heart ;  she  is 
loving — if  she  loves — as  a  ripe  heart 
should." 

"But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly 
true,"  said  I. 

"Try  it,"  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down 
firmly,  and  looking  in  my  face. 

"How?"  returned  I. 

"I  have  three  weeks  upon  my  hands," 


A  ROMAN   GIRL  223 

continued  he.  "Go  with  me  into  the  Appe- 
nines ;  leave  your  home  in  the  Corso,  and 
see  if  you  can  forget  in  the  air  of  the  moun 
tains,  your  bright-eyed  Roman  girl." 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  he 
went  on :  "It  is  better  so ;  love  as  you 
might,  that  southern  nature  with  all  its  pas 
sion,  is  not  the  material  to  build  domestic 
happiness  upon ;  nor  is  your  northern  habit 
— whatever  you  may  think  at  your  time  of 
life,  the  one  to  cherish  always  those  pas 
sionate  sympathies  which  are  bred  by  this 
atmosphere,  and  their  scenes." 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little 
parlor,  and  to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that 
sweet  angel  face ;  and  then,  like  lightning 
it  traversed  oceans,  and  fed  upon  the  old 
ideal  of  home,  and  brought  images  to  my 
eye  of  lost — dead  ones,  who  seemed  to  be 
stirring  on  heavenly  wings,  in  that  soft  Ro 
man  atmosphere,  with  greeting,  and  with 
beckoning. 

—"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders,  when 
I  told  him  I  was  going  to  the  mountains, 
and  wanted  a  guide.  His  wife  said  it  would 
be  cold  upon  the  hills,  for  the  winter  was 
not  ended.  Enrica  said  it  would  be  warm 
in  the  valleys,  for  the  spring  was  coming. 


224  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

The  old  man  drummed  with  his  fingers  on 
the  table,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  again, 
but  said  nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.  Cesare 
said  it  would  be  hard  walking.  Enrica 
asked  papa,  if  there  would  be  any  danger. 
And  again  the  old  man  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders.  Again  I  asked  him,  if  he  knew  a 
man  who  would  serve  us  as  a  guide  among 
the  Appenines ;  and  finding  me  determined, 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  he 
would  find  one  the  next  day. 

As  I  passed  out  at  evening,  on  my  way 
to  the  Piazzo  near  the  Monte  Citorio,  where 
stand  the  carriages  that  go  out  to  Tivoli, 
Enrica  glided  up  to  me,  and  whispered — 
"Ah,  mi  displace  tanto — tanto,  Signor!" 


THE   APPENINES 

I  SHOOK  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  after 
ward  was  passing,  with  my  friend,  by  the 
Trajan  forum,  toward  the  deep  shadow  of 
San  Maggiore,  which  lay  in  our  way  to  the 
mountains.  At  sunset  we  were  wandering 
over  the  ruin  of  Adrian's  villa,  which  lies 
upon  the  first  step  of  the  Appenines.  Be 
hind  us,  the  vesper  bells  of  Tivoli  were 
sounding,  and  their  echoes  floating  sweetly 
under  the  broken  arches ;  before  us,  stretch 
ing  all  the  way  to  the  horizon,  lay  the  broad 
Campagna ;  while  in  the  middle  of  its  great 
waves,  turned  violet-colored  by  the  hues  of 
twilight,  rose  the  grouped  towers  of  the 
Eternal  City ;  and  lording  it  among  them 
225 


226  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

all,  like  a  giant,  stood  the  black  dome  of  St. 
Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the 
mountains,  leaving  the  Campagna  far  be 
hind  us.  Rocks  and  stones,  huge  and 
ragged,  lie  strewn  over  the  surface  right 
and  left;  deep  yawning  valleys  lie  in  the 
shadows  of  mountains,  that  loom  up  thou 
sands  of  feet,  bearing,  perhaps,  upon  their 
tops  old  castellated  towns,  perched  like 
birds'  nests.  But  mountain  and  valley  are 
blasted  and  scarred ;  the  forests  even  are 
not  continuous,  but  struggle  for  a  liveli 
hood  ;  as  if  the  brimstone  fire  that  consumed 
Nineveh,  had  withered  their  energies. 
Sometimes  our  eyes  rest  on  a  great  white 
scar  of  the  broken  calcareous  rock,  on  which 
the  moss  cannot  grow,  and  the  lizards  dare 
not  creep.  Then  we  see  a  cliff  beetling  far 
aloft,  with  the  shining  walls  of  some  mon 
astery  of  holy  men  glistening  at  its  base. 
The  wayside  brooks  do  not  seem  to  be  the 
gentle  offspring  of  bountiful  hills,  but  the 
remnants  of  something  greater,  whose 
greatness  has  expired — they  are  turbid  rills, 
rolling  in  the  bottom  of  yawning  chasms. 
Even  the  shrubs  have  a  look,  as  if  the  Vols- 
cian  war-horse  had  trampled  them  down  to 
death ;  and  the  primroses  and  the  violets  by 


THE   APPENINES  227 

the  mountain  path  alone  look  modestly 
beautiful  amid  the  ruin. 

Sometimes  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above 
which  the  goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs, 
and  listen  to  the  sweet  pastoral  pipes  of  the 
Appenines.  We  see  the  shepherds  in  their 
rough  skin  coats,  high  over  our  heads. 
Their  herds  are  feeding,  as  it  seems,  on 
ledges  of  a  hand's  breadth.  The  sweet 
sound  floats  and  lingers  in  the  soft  atmos 
phere,  without  a  breath  of  wind  to  bear  it 
away,  or  a  noise  to  disturb  its  melody.  The 
shadows  slant  more  and  more  as  we  linger ; 
and  the  kids  begin  to  group  together.  And 
as  we  wander  on,  through  the  stunted  vine 
yard  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  the  sweet 
sound  flows  after  us,  like  a  river  of  song — 
nor  leaves  us,  till  the  kids  have  vanished  in 
the  distance,  and  the  cliffs  themselves,  be 
come  one  dark  wall  of  shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meager  mountain 
town,  we  stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass- 
ways,  or  wander  under  the  heavy  arches  of 
the  mountain  churches.  Shuffling  old  wom 
en  grope  in  and  out;  dim  lamps  glimmer 
faintly  at  the  side  altars,  shedding  horrid 
light  upon  painted  images  of  the  dying 
Christ.  Or,  perhaps,  to  make  the  old  pile 
more  solemn,  there  stands  some  bier  in  the 


228 


REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 


middle,  with  a  figure  or  two  kneeling  at  the 
foot,  and  ragged  boys  move  stealthily  under 
the  shadows  of  the  columns.  Presently 
comes  a  young  priest,  in  black  robes,  and 
lights  a  taper  at  the  foot,  and  another  at  the 
head — for  there  is  a  dead  man  on  the  bier; 
and  the  parched,  thin  features  look  awfully 
under  the  yellow  light  of  the  tapers,  in  the 
gloom  of  the  great  building.  It  is  very, 
very  damp  in  the  church,  and  the  body  of 
the  dead  man  seems  to  make  the  air  heavy, 
so  we  go  out  into  the  starlight  again. 

In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear 
broad  shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple,  on 
the  herbage,  to  our  tread :  across  the  valley, 
it  is  like  summer ;  and  the  birds — for  there 
are  songsters  in  the  Appenines — make  sum 
mer  music.  Their  notes  blend  softly  with 
the  faint  sounds  of  some  far-off  convent 
bell,  tolling  for  morning  mass,  and  strike 
the  frosted  and  shaded  mountain  side,  with 
a  sweet  echo.  As  we  toil  on,  and  the  shaded 
hills  begin  to  glow  in  the  sunshine,  we  pass 
a  train  of  mules,  loaded  with  wine.  We 
have  seen  them  an  hour  before — little  black 
dots  twining  along  the  white  streak  of  foot 
way  upon  the  mountain  above  us.  We  lost 
them  as  we  began  to  ascend,  until  a  wild 
snatch  of  an  Appenine  song  turned  our  eyes 


THE  APPENINES  22Q 

up,  and  there,  straggling  through  the  brush, 
they  appeared  again ;  a  foot  slip  would  have 
brought  the  mules  and  wine  casks  rolling 
upon  us.  We  keep  still,  holding  by  the 
brushwood,  to  let  them  pass.  An  hour  more, 
and  we  see  them  toiling  slowly — mule  and 
muleteer — big  dots  and  little  dots — far 
down  where  we  have  been  before.  The  sun 
is  hot  and  smoking  on  them  in  the  bare  val 
leys  ;  the  sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on  the 
hill  side,  where  we  are  toiling  over  the 
broken  stones.  I  thought  of  little  Enrica, 
when  she  said  :  "the  spring  was  coming !" 

Time  and  again  we  sit  down  together — 
my  friend  and  I — upon  some  fragment  of 
rock,  under  the  broad-armed  chestnuts,  that 
fringe  the  lower  skirts  of  the  mountains, 
and  talk  through  the  hottest  of  the  noon,  of 
the  warriors  of  Sylla,  and  of  the  Sabine 
woman — but  oftener — of  the  pretty  peas 
antry,  and  of  the  sweet-faced  Roman  girl. 
He,  too,  tells  me  of  his  life  and  loves,  and  of 
the  hopes  that  lie  misty  and  grand  before 
him  :  little  did  we  think  that  in  so  few  years, 
his  hopes  would  be  gone,  and  his  body  lying 
low  in  the  Adriatic,  or  tossed  with  the  drift 
upon  the  Dalmatian  shores !  Little  did  I 
think  that  here  under  the  ancestral  wood — 
still  a  wishful  and  blundering  mortal,  I 


230  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

should  be  gathering-  up  the  shreds  that 
memory  can  catch  of  our  Appenine  wander 
ing,  and  be  weaving  them  into  my  bachelor 
dreams. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of 
thought,  I  follow  our  steps,  as  after  weeks 
of  wandering,  we  gained  once  more  a  height 
that  overlooked  the  Campagna — and  saw 
the  sun  setting  on  its  edge,  throwing  into 
relief  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  blazing  in 
a  red  stripe  upon  the  waters  of  the  Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina — the  Praeneste 
of  the  poets  and  philosophers ;  the  dwelling 
place  of — I  know  not  how  many — emperors. 
We  went  straggling  through  the  dirty 
streets,  searching  for  some  tidy-looking  os- 
teria.  At  length  we  found  an  old  lady  wrho 
could  give  us  a  bed,  but  no  dinner.  My 
friend  dropped  in  a  chair  disheartened.  A 
snub-looking  priest  came  out  to  condole 
with  us. 

And  could  Palestrina — the  frigidum  PYCE- 
neste  of  Horace,  which  had  entertained  over 
and  over,  the  noblest  of  the  Colonna,  and 
the  most  noble  Adrian — could  Palestrina 
not  furnish  a  dinner  to  a  tired  traveler  ? 

"Si,  Signore"  said  the  snub-looking 
priest. 

"Si,  Signer ino,"  said  the  neat  old  lady ; 


THE  APPENINES  23! 

and  away  we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And 
we  found  bright  and  happy  faces ;  especially 
the  little  girl  of  twelve  years,  who  came 
close  by  me  as  I  ate,  and  afterward  strung 
a  garland  of  marigolds,  and  put  it  on  my 
head.  Then  there  was  a  bright-eyed  boy  of 
fourteen,  who  wrote  his  name,  and  those  of 
the  whole  family,  upon  a  fly-leaf  of  my 
book ;  and  a  pretty,  saucy-looking  girl  of 
sixteen,  who  peeped  a  long  time  from  be 
hind  the  kitchen  door,  but  before  the  even 
ing  was  gone,  she  was  in  the  chair  beside 
me,  and  had  written  her  name — Carlotta — 
upon  the  first  leaf  of  my  journal. 

When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.  From  my 
bed  I  could  see  over  the  town,  the  thin,  lazy 
mists  lying  on  the  old  camp-ground  of 
Pyrrhus ;  beyond  it  were  the  mountains, 
which  hide  Frascati,  and  Monte-Cavi. 
There  was  old  Colonna,  too,  that — 

Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Appenine. 

As  the  mist  lifted,  and  the  sun  bright 
ened  the  plain,  I  could  see  the  road,  along 
which  Sylla  came  fuming  and  maddened 
after  the  Mithridaten  war.  I  could  see,  as 
I  half  dreamed  and  half  slept,  the  fright- 


232  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

ened  peasantry  whooping  to  their  long- 
horned  cattle,  as  they  drove  them  on  tumul- 
tuously  up  through  the  gateways  of  the 
town ;  and  women  with  babies  in  their  arms, 
and  children  scowling  with  fear  and  hate — 
all  trooping  fast  and  madly,  to  escape  the 
hand  of  the  Avenger ;  alas  !  ineffectually,  for 
Sylla  murdered  them,  and  pulled  down  the 
walls  of  their  town — the  proud  Palestrina. 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles 
of  Rome,  led  on  by  Stefano  Colonna,  group 
ing  along  the  plain,  their  corslets  flashing 
out  of  the  mists — their  pennants  dashing 
above  it — coming  up  fast,  and  still  as  the 
wind,  to  make  the  Mural  Praeneste,  their 
stronghold  against  the  Last  of  the  Tribunes. 
And  strangely  mingling  fiction  with  fact,  I 
saw  the  brother  of  Walter  de  Montreal,  with 
his  noisy  and  bristling  army,  crowd  over  the 
Campagna,  and  put  up  his  white  tents,  and 
hang  out  his  showy  banners,  on  the  grassy 
knolls  that  lay  nearest  my  eye. 

— But  the  knolls  were  all  quiet ;  there 
was  not  so  much  as  a  strolling  contadino  on 
them,  to  whistle  a  mimic  fife-note.  A  little 
boy  from  the  inn  went  with  me  upon  the 
hill,  to  look  out  upon  the  town  and  the  wide 
sea  of  land  below ;  and  whether  it  was  the 
soft,  warm  April  sun,  or  the  gray  ruins  be- 


THE   APPENINES  233 

$$**> 

low  me,  or  whether  the  wonderful  silence  of 
the  scene,  or  some  wild  gush  of  memory,  I 
do  not  know,  but  something  made  me  sad. 

"Pcrche  cosi  penscroso! — why  so  sad" 
said  the  quick-eyed  boy.  "The  air  is  beau 
tiful,  the  scene  is  beautiful ;  Signore  is 
young,  why  is  he  sad  ?" 

"And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?"  said  I. 

"Quasi  mai,"  said  the  boy,  "and  if  I  could 
travel  as  Signore,  and  see  other  countries, 
I  would  be  always  gay." 

"May  you  be  always  that !"  said  I. 

The  good  wish  touched  him ;  he  took  me  . 
by  the  arms,  and  said — "Go  home  with  me, 
Signore ;  you  were  happy  at  the  inn   last 
night ;  go  back,  and  we  will  make  you  gay 
again !" 

—If  we  could  be  always  boys! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened 
him.  We  passed  out  shortly  after  from  the 
city  gates,  and  strode  on  over  the  rolling 
plain.  Once  or  twice  we  turned  back  to  look 
at  the  rocky  heights  beneath  which  lay  the 
ruined  town  of  Palestrina — a  city  that  defied 
Rome — that  had  a  king  before  a  plowshare 
had  touched  the  Capitoline,  or  the  Janiculan 
hill !  The  ivy  was  covering  up  richly  the 
Etruscan  foundations,  and  there  was  a  quiet 
over  the  whole  place.  The  smoke  was  rising 


234  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

straight  into  the  sky  from  the  chimney  tops  ; 
a  peasant  or  two  were  going  along  the  road 
with  donkeys ;  beside  this,  the  city  was,  to 
all  appearance,  a  dead  city.  And  it  seemed 
to  me  that  an  old  monk,  whom  I  could  see 
with  my  glass,  near  the  little  chapel  above 
the  town,  might  be  going  to  say  mass  for 
the  soul  of  the  dead  city. 

And  afterward,  when  we  came  near  to 
Rome,  and  passed  under  the  temple  tomb  of 
Metella — my  friend  said — "And  will  you  go 
back  now  to  your  home  ?  or  will  you  set  off 
with  me  to-morrow  for  Ancona  ?" 

"At  least,  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

"God  speed  you !"  said  he,  and  we  parted 
upon  the  Piazza,  di  Venezia — he  for  his  last 
mass  at  St.  Peter's,  and  I  for  the  tall  house 
upon  the  Corso. 


^l\ 


I  HEAR  her  glancing  feet  the  moment  I 
have  tinkled  the  bell ;  and  there  she  is,  with 
her  brown  hair  gathered  into  braids,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  joy  and  greeting.  And  as  I  walk 
with  the  mother  to  the  window  to  look  at 
some  pageant  that  is  passing,  she  steals  up 
behind  and  passes  her  arm  around  me,  with 
a  quick  electric  motion  and  a  gentle  pressure 
of  welcome  that  tells  more  than  a  thousand 
words. 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing 
below.  Far  down  the  street  we  see  heads 
thrust  out  of  the  windows  and  standing  in 
bold  relief  against  the  red  torchlight  of  the 
moving  train.  Below  dim  figures  are  gath- 
235 


236  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

ering  on  the  narrow  side  ways  to  look  at  the 
solemn  spectacle.  A  hoarse  chant  rises 
louder  and  louder,  and  half  dies  in  the  night 
air,  and  breaks  out  again  with  new  and  deep 
bitterness. 

Now  the  first  torchlight  under  us  shines 
plainly  on  faces  in  the  windows  and  on  the 
kneeling  women  in  the  street.  First  come 
old  retainers  of  the  dead  one,  bearing  long 
blazing  flambeaux.  Then  comes  a  company 
of  priests,  two  by  two,  bareheaded,  and 
every  second  one  with  a  lighted  torch,  and 
all  are  chanting. 

Next  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown 
cloaks,  with  sandaled  feet,  and  the  red  light 
streams  full  upon  their  grizzled  heads.  They 
add  their  heavy  guttural  voices  to  the  chant 
and  pass  slowly  on. 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests  in  white 
muslin  capes  and  black  robes  and  black  caps, 
bearing  books  in  their  hands,  wide  open,  and 
lit  up  plainly  by  the  torches  of  churchly 
servitors,  who  march  beside  them  ;  and  from 
the  books  the  priests  chant  loud  and  sol 
emnly.  Now  the  music  is  loudest,  and  the 
friars  take  up  the  dismal  notes  from  the 
white-capped  priests,  and  the  priests  before 
catch  them  from  the  brown-robed  friars, 
and  mournfully  the  sound  rises  up  between 


ENRICA  237 

the  tall  buildings,  into  the  blue  night  sky 
that  lies  between  Heaven  and  Rome. 

— "Vede — Vede!"  says  Cesare;  and  in  a 
blaze  of  the  red  torch  fire  comes  the  bier, 
borne  on  the  necks  of  stout  friars ;  and  on 
the  bier  is  the  body  of  a  dead  man,  habited 
like  a  priest.  Heavy  plumes  of  black  wave 
at  each  corner. 

— "Hist,"  says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  Enrica  crosses 
herself;  her  smile  is  for  the  moment  gone. 
Cesare's  boy-face  is  grown  suddenly  earnest. 
We  could  see  the  pale  youthful  features  of 
the  dead  man.  The  glaring  flambeaux  sent 
their  flaunting  streams  of  unearthly  light 
over  the  wan  visage  of  the  sleeper.  A  thou 
sand  eyes  were  looking  on  him,  but  his  face, 
careless  of  them  all,  was  turned  up,  straight 
toward  the  stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises,  and  companies  of 
priests  follow  the  bier,  like  those  who  had 
gone  before.  Friars,  in  brown  cloaks,  and 
prelates  and  Carmelites  come  after — all  with 
torches.  Two  by  two — their  voices  growing 
hoarse — they  tramp  and  chant. 

For  a  while  the  voices  cease,  and  you  can 
hear  the  rustling  of  their  robes,  and  their 
footfalls,  as  if  your  ear  was  to  the  earth. 
Then  the  chant  rises  again,  as  they  glide  on 


238  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

in  a  wavy  shining  line,  and  rolls  back  over 
the  death-train,  like  the  howling  of  a  wind 
in  winter. 

As  they  pass  the  faces  vanish  from  the 
windows.  The  kneeling  women  upon  the 
pavement  rise  up,  mindful  of  the  paroxysm 
of  Life  once  more.  The  groups  in  the  door 
ways  scatter.  But  their  low  voices  do  not 
drown  the  voices  of  the  host  of  mourners 
and  their  ghost-like  music. 

I  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier,  trailing 
under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Roman  pal 
aces,  and  at  the  stream  of  torches,  winding 
like  a  glittering,  scaled  serpent.  It  is  a  priest 
— say  I  to  my  landlady  as  she  closes  the 
window. 

"No,  signer — a  young  man  never  married, 
and  so,  by  virtue  of  his  condition,  they  put 
on  him  the  priest-robes." 

"So  I,"  says  the  pretty  Enrica— "if  I 
should  die,  would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you 
saw  me  on  a  carnival  night,  and  be  followed 
by  nuns  for  sisters." 

"A  long  way  off  may  it  be,  Enrica." 

She  took  my  hand  in  hers  and  pressed  it. 
An  Italian  girl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of 
death,  and  we  were  talking  of  it  still  as  we 
walked  back  to  my  little  parlor — my  hand  all 


ENRICA  239 

the  time  in  hers — and  sat  down  by  the  blaze 
of  my  fire. 

It  was  holy  week;  never  had  Enrica 
looked  more  sweetly  than  in  that  black  dress 
— under  that  long,  dark  veil  of  the  days  of 
Lent.  Upon  the  broad  pavement  of  St. 
Peter's — where  the  people,  flocking  by  thou 
sands,  made  only  side  groups  about  the  al 
tars  of  the  vast  temple — I  have  watched  her 
kneeling  beside  her  mother,  her  eyes  bent 
down,  her  lips  moving  earnestly,  and  her 
whole  figure  tremulous  with  deep  emotion. 
Wandering  around  among  the  halberdiers 
of  the  pope,  and  the  court  coats  of  Austria, 
and  the  barefooted  pilgrims  with  sandal, 
shell  and  staff,  I  would  sidle  back  again  to 
look  upon  that  kneeling  figure,  and,  leaning 
against  the  huge  columns  of  the  church, 
would  dream — even  as  I  am  dreaming  now. 

At  nightfall  I  urged  my  way  into  the 
Sistine  Chapel ;  Enrica  is  beside  me — look 
ing  with  me  upon  the  gaunt  figures  of  the 
Judgment  of  Angelo.  They  are  chanting 
the  Miserere.  The  twelve  candlesticks  by 
the  altar  are  put  out  one  by  one  as  the  serv 
ice  continues.  The  sun  has  gone  down,  and 
only  the  red  glow  of  twilight  steals  through 
the  dusky  windows.  There  is  a  pause,  and 


24O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

a  brief  reading  from  a  red-cloaked  cardinal, 
and  all  kneel  down.  She  kneels  beside  me, 
and  the  sweet,  mournful  flow  of  the  Miser 
ere  begins  again,  growing  in  force  and 
depth,  till  the  whole  chapel  rings  and  the 
balcony  of  the  choir  trembles ;  then  it  sub 
sides  again  into  the  low,  soft  \vail  of  a  single 
voice,  so  prolonged,  so  tremulous  and  so 
real  that  the  heart  aches  and  the  tears  start 
— for  Christ  is  dead  ! 

— Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not  wholly, 
but  just  as  it  seemed  expiring  it  is  caught 
up  by  another  and  stronger  voice  that  car 
ries  it  on,  plaintive  as  ever ;  nor  does  it  stop 
with  this,  for  just  as  you  looked  for  silence 
three  voices  more  begin  the  lament — sweet, 
touching,  mournful  voices — and  bear  it  up 
to  a  full  cry,  when  the  whole  choir  catch  its 
burden  and  make  the  lament  change  into  the 
wailing  of  a  multitude — wild,  shrill,  hoarse 
— with  swift  chants  intervening,  as  if  agony 
had  given  force  to  anguish.  Then,  sweetly, 
slowly,  voice  by  voice,  note  by  note,  the 
wailings  sink  into  the  low,  tender  moan  of  a 
single  singer — faltering,  tremulous,  as  if 
tears  checked  the  utterance,  and  swelling 
out,  as  if  despair  sustained  it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel  when  we  went 


ENRICA!  241 

out ;  voices  were  low.  Enrica  said  nothing — 
I  could  say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Rome  after  Easter;  I  did 
not  love  to  speak  of  it — nor  to  think  of  it. 
Rome — that  old  city,  with  all  its  misery,  and 
its  fallen  state,  and  its  broken  palaces  of  the 
empire — grows  upon  one's  heart.  The  frin 
ging  shrubs  of  the  coliseum,  flaunting  their 
blossoms  at  the  tall  beggar-men  in  cloaks 
who  grub  below — the  sun  glimmering  over 
the  mossy  pile  of  the  House  of  Nero — the 
sweet  sunsets  from  the  Pincian,  that  make 
the  broad  pine-tops  of  the  Janiculan  stand 
sharp  and  dark  against  a  sky  of  gold,  can 
not  easily  be  left  behind.  And  Enrica,  with 
her  silver-brown  hair,  and  the  silken  fillet 
that  bound  it,  and  her  deep  hazel  eyes,  and 
her  white,  delicate  fingers,  and  the  blue 
veins  chasing  over  her  fair  temples — ah, 
Easter  is  too  near ! 

But  it  comes,  and  passes  with  the  glory  of 
St.  Peter's — lighted  from  top  to  bottom. 
With  Enrica,  I  saw  it  from  the  Ripetta,  as  it 
loomed  up  in  the  distance,  like  a  city  on  fire. 

The  next  day  I  bring  home  my  last  bunch 
of  flowers,  and  with  it  a  little  richly-chased 
Roman  ring.  No  fire  blazes  on  the  hearth, 
but  they  are  all  there.  Warm  days  have 


i 

242  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

come,  and  the  summer  air,  even  now,  hangs 
heavy  with  fever  in  the  hollows  of  the  plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morn 
ing  of  which  I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not 
think  I  slept  very  well  myself — nor  very 
late.  Never  did  Enrica  look  more  beautiful 
— never.  All  her  carnival  robes  and  the  sad 
drapery  of  the  FRIDAY  OF  CRUCIFIXION 
could  not  so  adorn  her  beauty  as  that  neat 
morning  dress  and  that  simple  rosebud  she 
wore  upon  her  bosom.  She  gave  it  to  me — 
the  last — with  a  trembling  hand.  I  did  not, 
for  I  could  not,  thank  her.  She  knew  it ;  and 
her  eyes  were  full. 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek — it  was  the 
Roman  custom,  but  the  custom  did  not  ex 
tend  to  the  Roman  girls ;  at  least  not  often. 
As  I  passed  down  the  Corso  I  looked  back 
at  the  balcony,  where  she  stood  in  the  time 
of  Carnival  in  the  brown  sombrero  with  the 
white  plume.  I  knew  she  would  be  there 
now ;  and  there  she  was.  My  eyes  dwelt 
upon  the  vision,  very  loth  to  leave  it ;  and 
after  my  eyes  had  lost  it,  my  heart  clung  to 
it — there,  where  my  memory  clings  now. 

At  noon  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the 
hills,  toward  Soracte,  that  overlooked  Rome. 
There  was  a  stunted  pine  tree  grew  a  little 


ENRICA  243 

way  from  the  road,  and  I  sat  down  under  it 
— for  I  wished  no  dinner — and  I  looked 
back  with  strange  tumult  of  feeling  upon 
the  sleeping  city,  with  the  gray,  billowy  sea 
of  the  Campagna  lying  around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica,  the  Roman  girl, 
in  that  morning  dress,  with  her  brown  hair 
in  its  silken  fillet ;  but  the  rosebud  that  was 
in  her  bosom  was  now  in  mine.  Her  silvery 
voice,  too,  seemed  to  float  past  me,  bearing 
snatches  of  Roman  songs ;  but  the  songs 
were  sad  and  broken. 

— After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity !  thought  I ; 
and  yet  if  I  had  espied  then  some  returning 
carriage  going  down  toward  Rome,  I  will 
not  say — but  that  I  should  have  hailed  it, 
and  taken  a  place,  and  gone  back,  and  to  this 
day,  perhaps,  have  lived  at  Rome. 

But  the  vetturino  called  me ;  the  coach 
was  ready ;  I  gave  one  more  look  toward 
the  dome  that  guarded  the  sleeping  city,  and 
then  we  galloped  down  the  mountain,  on 
the  road  that  lay  toward  Perugia  and  Lake 
Thrasimene. 

— Sweet  Enrica!  art  thou  living  yet?  Or 
hast  thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent  Land 
where  the  good  sleep,  and  the  beautiful  ? 

The  visions  of  the  past  fade.   The  morn- 


244 


REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 


ing  breeze  has  died  upon  the  meadow ;  the 
Bob-o'-Lincoln  sits  swaying  on  the  willow 
tufts — singing  no  longer.  The  trees  lean  to 
the  brook ;  but  the  shadows  fall  straight  and 
dense  upon  the  silver  stream. 

NOON  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky,  and 
MORNING  is  gone. 


THE  NOON  is  short ;  the  sun  never  loiters 
on  the  meridian,  nor  does  the  shadow  on  the 
old  dial  by  the  garden  stay  long  at  XII. 
The  present,  like  the  noon,  is  only  a  point, 
and  a  point  so  fine  that  it  is  not  measurable 
by  the  grossness  of  action.  Thought  alone 
is  delicate  enough  to  tell  the  breadth  of  the 
present. 

The  past  belongs  to  God ;  the  present  only 

is  ours.   And,  short  as  it  is,  there  is  more  in 

it,  and  of  it,  than  we  can  well  manage.  That 

man  who  can  grapple  it,  and  measure  it,  and 

245 


246  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

fill  it  with  his  purpose,  is  doing  a  man's 
work ;  none  can  do  more ;  but  there  are  thou 
sands  who  do  less. 

Short  as  it  is,  the  present  is  great  and 
strong — as  much  stronger  than  the  past  as 
fire  than  ashes,  or  as  death  than  the  grave. 
The  noon  sun  will  quicken  vegetable  life 
that  in  the  morning  was  dead.  It  is  hot  and 
scorching ;  I  feel  it  now  upon  my  head ;  but 
it  does  not  scorch  and  heat  like  the  bewilder 
ing  present.  There  are  no  oak  leaves  to  in 
terrupt  the  rays  of  the  burning  NOW.  Its 
shadows  do  not  fall  east  or  west — like  the 
noon,  the  shade  it  makes  falls  straight  from 
sky  to  earth — straight  from  heaven  to  hell ! 

Memory  presides  over  the  past ;  Action 
presides  over  the  present.  The  first  lives  in  a 
rich  temple  hung  with  glorious  trophies  and 
lined  with  tombs ;  the  other  has  no  shrine 
but  Duty,  and  it  walks  the  earth  like  a 
spirit. 

— I  called  my  dog  to  me,  and  we  shared 
together  the  meal  that  I  had  brought  away 
at  sunrise  from  the  mansion  under  the  elms  ; 
and  now  Carlo  is  gnawing  at  the  bone  that 
I  have  thrown  to  him,  and  I  stroll  dreamily 
in  the  quiet  noon  atmosphere  upon  that 
grassy  knoll  under  the  oaks. 


NOON  247 

Noon  in  the  country  is  very  still ;  the 
birds  do  not  sing;  the  workmen  are  not  in 
the  field;  the  sheep  lay  their  noses  to  the 
ground,  and  the  herds  stand  in  pools  under 
shady  trees,  lashing  their  sides,  but  other 
wise  motionless.  The  mills  upon  the  brook, 
far  above,  have  ceased  for  an  hour  their 
labor ;  and  the  stream  softens  its  rustle  and 
sinks  away  from  the  sedgy  banks.  The  heat 
plays  upon  the  meadow  in  noiseless  waves, 
and  the  beech  leaves  do  not  stir. 

Thought,  I  said,  was  the  only  measure  of 
the  present ;  and  the  stillness  of  noon  breeds 
thought ;  and  my  thought  brings  up  the  old 
companions  and  stations  them  in  the  domain 
of  NOW.  Thought  ranges  over  the  world, 
and  brings  up  hopes,  and  fears,  and  resolves, 
to  measure  the  burning  NOW.  Joy,  and 
grief,  and  purpose,  blending  in  my  thought, 
give  breadth  to  the  Present. 

— Where — thought  I — is  little  Isabel 
now?  Where  is  Lilly — where  is  Ben? 
Where  is  Leslie — where  is  my  old  teacher? 
Where  is  my  chum,  who  played  such  rare 
tricks — where  is  the  black-eyed  Jane? 
Where  is  that  sweet-faced  girl  whom  I 
parted  with  upon  that  terrace  looking  down 
upon  the  old  spire  of  Modbury  church? 


248  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

Where  are  my  hopes — where  my  purposes — 
where  my  sorrows  ? 

I  care  not  who  you  are — but  if  you  bring 
such  thought  to  measure  the  present,  the 
present  will  seem  broad ;  and  it  will  be  sultry 
at  noon — and  make  a  fever  of  Now. 


EARLY    FRIENDS 

WHERE  are  they? 

I  can  not  sit  now,  as  once,  upon  the  edge 
of  the  brook  hour  after  hour,  flinging  off  my 
line  and  hook  to  the  nibbling  roach,  and 
reckon  it  great  sport.  There  is  no  girl  with 
auburn  ringlets  to  sit  beside  me  and  to  play 
upon  the  bank.  The  hours  are  shorter  than 
they  were  then ;  and  the  little  joys  that  fur 
nished  boyhood  till  the  heart  was  full  can 
fill  it  no  longer.  Poor  Tray  is  dead  long 
ago,  and  he  can  not  swim  into  the  pools  for 
the  floating  sticks ;  nor  can  I  sport  with  him 
hour  after  hour  and  think  it  happiness.  The 
mound  that  covers  his  grave  is  sunken,  and 
249 


250  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

the  trees  that  shaded  it  are  broken  and 
mossy. 

Little  Lilly  is  grown  into  a  woman,  and 
is  married ;  and  she  has  another  little  Lilly, 
with  flaxen  hair,  she  says — looking  as  she 
used  to  look.  I  dare  say  the  child  is  pretty ; 
but  it  is  not  my  Lilly.  She  has  a  little  boy, 
too,  that  she  calls  Paul — a  chubby  rogue, 
she  writes,  and  as  mischievous  as  ever  I 
was.  God  bless  the  boy  ! 

Ben — who  would  have  liked  to  ride  in  the 
coach  that  carried  me  away  to  school — has 
had  a  great  many  rides  since  then — rough 
rides,  and  hard  ones,  over  the  road  of  life. 
He  does  not  rake  up  the  falling  leaves  for 
bonfires,  as  he  did  once ;  he  is  grown  a  man, 
and  is  fighting  his  way  somewhere  in  our 
western  world,  to  the  short-lived  honors  of 
time.  He  was  married  not  long  ago;  his 
wife  I  remembered  as  one  of  my  playmates 
at  my  first  school ;  she  was  beautiful,  but 
fragile  as  a  leaf.  She  died  within  a  year  of 
their  marriage.  Ben  was  but  four  years  my 
senior ;  but  this  grief  has  made  him  ten 
years  older.  He  does  not  say  it,  but  his  eye 
and  his  figure  tell  it. 

The  nurse  who  put  the  purse  in  my  hand 
that  dismal  morning  is  grown  a  feeble  old 


EARLY    FRIENDS  251 


woman.  She  was  over  fifty  then;  she  may 
well  be  seventy  now.  She  did  not  know  my 
voice  when  I  went  to  see  her  the  other  day, 
nor  did  she  know  my  face  at  all.  She  re 
peated  the  name  when  I  told  it  to  her — 
Paul,  Paul — she  did  not  remember  any  Paul, 
except  a  little  boy,  a  long  while  ago. 

— "To  whom  you  gave  a  purse  when  he 
went  away,  and  told  him  to  say  nothing  to 
Lilly  or  to  Ben  ?" 

— "Yes,  that  Paul" — says  the  old  woman 
exultingly — "do  you  know  him?" 

And  when  I  told  her — "She  would  not 
have  believed  it!"  But  she  did,  and  took 
hold  of  my  hand  again  (for  she  was  blind), 
and  then  smoothed  down  the  plaits  of  her 
apron,  and  jogged  her  cap  strings,  to  look 
tidy  in  the  presence  of  "the  gentleman." 
And  she  told  me  long  stories  about  the  old 
house  and  how  other  people  came  in  after 
ward  ;  and  she  called  me  "sir"  sometimes, 
and  sometimes  "Paul."  But  I  asked  her  to 
say  only  Paul ;  she  seemed  glad  for  this,  and 
talked  easier,  and  went  on  to  tell  of  my  old 
playmates,  and  how  we  used  to  ride  the  pony 
— poor  Jacko! — and  how  we  gathered  nuts 
— such  heaping  piles ;  and  how  we  used  to 
play  at  fox  and  geese  through  the  long  win- 


252  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

ter  evenings ;  and  how  my  poor  mother 
would  smile — but  here  I  asked  her  to  stop. 
She  could  not  have  gone  on  much  longer, 
for  I  believe  she  loved  our  house  and  people 
better  than  she  loved  her  own. 

As  for  my  uncle,  the  cold,  silent  man,  who 
lived  with  his  books  in  the  house  upon  the 
hill,  and  who  used  to  frighten  me  sometimes 
with  his  look,  he  grew  very  feeble  after  I 
had  left,  and  almost  crazed.  The  country 
people  said  that  he  was  mad ;  and  Isabel, 
with  her  sweet  heart,  clung  to  him,  and 
would  lead  him  out,  when  his  step  tottered, 
to  the  seat  in  the  garden,  and  read  to  him 
out  of  the  books  he  loved  to  hear.  And 
sometimes,  they  told  me,  she  would  read 
to  him  some  letters  that  I  had  written  to 
Lilly  or  to  Ben,  and  ask  him  if  he  remem 
bered  Paul,  who  saved  her  from  drowning 
under  the  tree  in  the  meadow?  But  he 
could  only  shake  his  head  and  mutter  some 
thing  about  how  old  and  feeble  he  had 
grown. 

They  wrote  me  afterward  that  he  died, 

tand  was  buried  in  a  far-away  place,  where 
his  wife  once  lived,  and  where  he  now  sleeps 
beside  her.  Isabel  was  sick  with  grief,  and 
came  to  live  for  a  time  with  Lilly  ;  but  when 


EARLY    FRIENDS  253 

they  wrote  me  last  she  had  gone  back  to  her 
old  home — where  Tray  was  buried — where 
we  had  played  together  so  often  through  the 
long  days  of  summer. 

I  was  glad  I  should  find  her  there  when  I 
came  back.  Lilly  and  Ben  were  both  living 
nearer  to  the  city  when  I  landed  from  my 
long  journey  over  the  seas;  but  still  I  went 
to  find  Isabel  first.  Perhaps  I  had  heard  so 
much  oftener  from  the  others  that  I  felt  less 
eager  to  see  them ;  or  perhaps  I  wanted  to 
save  my  best  visits  to  the  last ;  or  perhaps 
(I  did  think  it),  perhaps  I  loved  Isabel  bet 
ter  than  them  all. 

So  I  went  into  the  country,  thinking  all 
the  way  how  she  must  have  changed  since 
I  left.  She  must  be  now  nineteen  or  twenty ; 
and  then  her  grief  must  have  saddened  her 
face  somewhat ;  but  I  thought  I  should  like 
her  all  the  better  for  that.  Then  perhaps 
she  would  not  laugh  and  tease  me,  but  would 
be  quieter,  and  wear  a  sweet  smile — so  calm 
and  beautiful,  I  thought.  Her  figure,  too, 
must  have  grown  more  elegant,  and  she 
would  have  more  dignity  in  her  air. 

I  shuddered  a  little  at  this,  for,  I  thought, 
she  will  hardly  think  so  much  of  me  then ; 
perhaps  she  will  have  seen  those  whom  she 


254  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

l$ 

likes  a  great  deal  better.  Perhaps  she  will 
not  like  me  at  all ;  yet  I  knew  very  well  that 
I  should  like  her. 

I  had  gone  up  almost  to  the  house ;  I  had 
passed  the  stream  where  we  fished  on  that 
day,  many  years  before ;  and  I  thought  that 
now,  since  she  was  grown  to  womanhood,  I 
should  never  sit  with  her  there  again,  and 
surely  never  drag  her  as  I  did  out  of  the 
water,  and  never  chafe  her  little  hands,  and 
never,  perhaps,  kiss  her,  as  I  did  when  she 
sat  upon  my  mother's  lap — oh,  no — no — no ! 

I  saw  where  we  buried  Tray,  but  the  old 
slab  was  gone ;  there  was  no  ribbon  there 
now.  I  thought  that  at  least  Isabel  would 
have  replaced  the  slab,  but  it  was  a  wrong 
thought.  I  trembled  when  I  went  up  to  the 
door,  for  it  flashed  upon  me  that  perhaps 
Isabel  was  married.  I  could  not  tell  why  she 
should  not ;  but  I  knew  it  would  make  me 
uncomfortable  to  hear  that  she  had. 

There  was  a  tall  woman  who  opened  the 
door ;  she  did  not  know  me,  but  I  recognized 
her  as  one  of  the  old  servants.  I  asked  after 
the  housekeeper  first,  thinking  I  would  sur 
prise  Isabel.  My  heart  fluttered  somewhat, 
thinking  that  she  might  step  in  suddenly 
herself — or  perhaps  that  she  might  have 


sC 


EARLY   FRIENDS  255 

seen  me  coming  up  the  hill.  But  even  then 
I  thought  she  would  hardly  know  me. 

Presently  the  housekeeper  came  in,  look 
ing  very  grave ;  she  asked  if  the  gentleman 
wished  to  see  her. 

The  gentleman  did  wish  it,  and  she  sat 
down  on  one  side  of  the  fire — for  it  was 
autumn,  and  the  leaves  were  falling,  and  the 
November  winds  were  very  chilly. 

— Shall  I  tell  her — thought  I — who  I  am, 
or  ask  at  once  for  Isabel  ?  I  tried  to  ask,  but 
it  was  hard  for  me  to  call  her  name ;  it  was 
very  strange,  but  I  could  not  pronounce  it 
at  all. 

"Who,  sir?"  said  the  housekeeper,  in  a 
tone  so  earnest  that  I  rose  at  once  and 
crossed  over  and  took  her  hand.  "You  know 
me,"  said  I — "you  surely  remember  Paul  ?" 

She  started  with  surprise,  but  recovered 
herself  and  resumed  the  same  grave  manner. 
I  thought  I  had  committed  some  mistake,  or 
been  in  some  way  cause  of  offense.  I  called 
her  madame,  and  asked  for — Isabel. 

She  turned  pale,  terribly  pale.  "Bella?" 
Raid  she. 

"Yes,  Bella." 

"Sir— Bella  is  dead!" 

I  dropped  into  my  chair.   I  said  nothing. 


256  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

The  housekeeper — bless  her  kind  heart! — 
slipped  noiselessly  out.  My  hands  were  over 
my  eyes.  The  winds  were  sighing  outside, 
and  the  clock  ticking  mournfully  within. 

I  did  not  sob,  nor  weep,  nor  utter  any  cry. 

The  clock  ticked  mournfully,  and  the 
winds  were  sighing ;  but  I  did  not  hear  them 
any  longer ;  there  was  a  tempest  raging 
within  me  that  would  have  drowned  the 
voice  of  thunder. 

It  broke  at  length  in  a  long,  deep  sigh — 
"Oh,  God!" — said  I.  It  may  have  been  a 
prayer — it  was  not  an  imprecation. 

Bella — sweet  Bella,  was  dead !  It  seemed 
as  if  with  her  half  the  world  were  dead — 
every  bright  face  darkened — every  sunshine 
blotted  out — every  flower  withered — every 
hope  extinguished ! 

I  walked  out  into  the  air  and  stood  under 
the  trees  where  we  had  played  together  with 
poor  Tray — where  Tray  lay  buried.  But  it 
was  not  Tray  I  thought  of,  as  I  stood  there, 
with  the  cold  wind  playing  through  my  hair 
and  my  eyes  filling  with  tears.  How  could 
she  die  ?  Why  was  she  gone  ?  Was  it  really 
true  ?  Was  Isabel  indeed  dead — in  her  coffin 
— buried?  Then  why  should  anybody  live? 
What  was  there  to  live  for,  now  that  Bella 
was  gone  ? 


EARLY    FRIENDS  257 

Ah,  what  a  gap  in  the  world  is  made  by 
the  death  of  those  we  love !  It  is  no  longer 
whole,  but  a  poor  half-world,  that  swings 
uneasy  on  its  axis  and  makes  you  dizzy  with 
the  clatter  of  its  wreck ! 

The  housekeeper  told  me  all — little  by 
little,  as  I  found  calmness  to  listen.  She  had 
been  dead  a  month ;  Lilly  was  with  her 
through  it  all ;  she  died  sweetly,  without 
pain,  and  without  fear — what  can  angels 
fear?  She  had  spoken  often  of  "Cousin 
Paul ;"  she  had  left  a  little  packet  for  him, 
but  it  was  not  there ;  she  had  given  it  into 
Lilly's  keeping. 

Her  grave,  the  housekeeper  told  me,  was 
only  a  little  way  off  from  her  home — beside 
the  grave  of  a  brother  who  died  long  years 
before.  I  went  there  that  evening.  The 
mound  was  high  and  fresh.  The  sods  had 
not  closed  together,  and  the  dry  leaves 
caught  in  the  crevices  and  gave  a  ragged 
and  a  terrible  look  to  the  grave.  The  next 
day  I  laid  them  all  smooth — as  we  had  once 
laid  them  on  the  grave  of  Tray ;  I  clipped 
the  long  grass,  and  set  a  tuft  of  blue  violets 
at  the  foot,  and  watered  it  all  with — tears. 
The  homestead,  the  trees,  the  fields,  the 
meadows,  in  the  windy  November,  looked 
dismally.  I  could  not  like  them  again — I 


258  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

liked  nothing  but  the  little  mound  that  I  had 
dressed  over  Bella's  grave.  There  she  sleeps 
now — the  sleep  of  death ! 


SCHOOL   REVISITED 


THE  old  school  was  there  still — with  the 
high  cupola  upon  it,  and  the  long  galleries, 
with  the  sleeping  rooms  opening  out  on 
either  side,  and  the  corner  one,  where  I 
slept.  But  the  boys  are  not  there,  nor  the 
old  teachers.  They  have  plowed  up  the 
playground  to  plant  corn,  and  the  apple  tree 
with  the  low  limb,  that  made  our  gymna 
sium,  is  cut  down. 

I  was  there  only  a  little  time  ago.  It  was 
on  a  Sunday.  One  of  the  old  houses  of  the 
village  had  been  fashioned  into  a  tavern,  and 
it  was  there  I  stopped.  But  I  strolled  by  the 
old  one,  and  looked  into  the  bar-room,  where 
I  used  to  gaze  with  wonder  upon  the  enor- 
259 


26O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

mous  pictures  of  wild  animals  which  her 
alded  some  coming  menagerie.  There  was 
just  such  a  picture  hanging  still,  and  two  or 
three  advertisements  of  sheriffs,  and  a  little 
bill  of  a  "horse  stolen,"  and — as  I  thought — 
the  same  brown  pitcher  on  the  edge  of  the 
bar.  I  was  sure  it  was  the  same  great  wood- 
box  that  stood  by  the  fireplace,  and  the  same 
whip  and  greatcoat  hung  in  the  corner. 

I  was  not  in  so  gay  costume  as  I  once 
thought  I  would  be  wearing  when  a  man ;  I 
had  nothing  better  than  a  rusty  shooting 
jacket ;  but  even  with  this  I  was  determined 
to  have  a  look  about  the  church,  and  see  if 
I  could  trace  any  of  the  faces  of  the  old 
times.  They  had  sadly  altered  the  building ; 
they  had  cut  out  its  long  galleries  and  its 
old-fashioned  square  pews,  and  filled  it  with 
narrow  boxes,  as  they  do  in  the  city.  The 
pulpit  was  not  so  high  or  grand,  and  it  was 
covered  over  with  the  work  of  the  cabinet 
makers. 

I  missed,  too,  the  old  preacher,  whom  we 
all  feared  so  much,  and  in  place  of  him  was 
a  jaunty-looking  man,  whom  I  thought  I 
would  not  be  at  all  afraid  to  speak  to,  or,  if 
need  be,  to  slap  on  the  shoulder.  And  when 
I  did  meet  him  after  church,  I  looked  him 


SCHOOL   REVISITED  26l 

/ 

in  the  eye  as  boldly  as  a  lion — what  a  change 
was  that  from  the  school  days ! 

Here  and  there  I  could  detect  about  the 
church  some  old  farmer  by  the  stoop  in  his 
shoulders,  or  by  a  particular  twist  in  his 
nose,  and  one  or  two  young  fellows  who 
used  to  storm  into  the  gallery  in  my  school 
days  in  very  gay  jackets,  dressed  off  with 
ribbons — which  we  thought  was  astonish 
ing  heroism,  and  admired  accordingly — 
were  now  settled  away  into  fathers  of  fam 
ilies,  and  looked  as  demure  and  peaceable 
at  the  head  of  their  pews,  with  a  white- 
headed  boy  or  two  between  them  and  their 
wives,  as  if  they  had  been  married  all  their 
days. 

There  was  a  stout  man,  too,  with  a  slight 
limp  in  his  gait,  who  used  to  work  on  har 
nesses,  and  strap  our  skates,  and  who  I  al 
ways  thought  would  have  made  a  capital 
Vulcan — he  stalked  up  the  aisle  past  me,  as 
if  I  had  my  skates  strapped  at  his  shop  only 
yesterday. 

The  bald-pated  shoemaker,  who  never 
kept  his  word,  and  who  worked  in  the  brick 
shop,  and  who  had  a  son  called  Theodore — 
which  we  all  thought  a  very  pretty  name  for 
a  shoemaker's  son — I  could  not  find.  I 


202  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

feared  he  might  be  dead.  I  hoped,  if  he  was, 
that  his  broken  promises  about  patching 
boots  would  not  come  up  against  him. 

The  old  factor  of  tamarinds  and  sugar 
crackers  who  used  to  drive  his  covered 
wagon  every  Saturday  evening  into  the 
play-ground,  I  observed,  still  holding  his 
place  in  the  village  choir,  and  singing — 
though  with  a  tooth  or  two  gone — as  se 
renely  and  obstreperously  as  ever. 

I  looked  around  the  church  to  find  the 
black-eyed  girl  who  always  sat  behind  the 
choir — the  one  I  loved  to  look  at  so  much. 
I  knew  she  must  be  grown  up ;  but  I  could 
fix  upon  no  face  positively ;  once,  as  a  stout 
woman  with  a  pair  of  boys,  and  who  wore  a 
big  red  shawl,  turned  half  around,  I  thought 
I  recognized  her  nose.  If  it  was  she,  it  had 
grown  red  though,  and  I  felt  cured  of  my 
old  fondness.  As  for  the  other,  who  wore 
the  hat  trimmed  with  fur — she  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen,  among  either  maids  or  matrons ; 
and  when  I  asked  the  tavern-keeper,  and 
described  her,  and  her  father,  as  they  were 
in  my  school  days,  he  told  me  that  she  had 
married,  too,  and  lived  some  five  miles  from 
the  village ;  and,  said  he — "I  guess  she  leads 
her  husband  a  devil  of  a  life !" 


SCHOOL   REVISITED  263 

I  felt  cured  of  her,  too,  but  I  pitied  the 
husband. 

One  of  my  old  teachers  was  in  the  church  ; 
I  could  have  sworn  to  his  face ;  he  was  a 
precise  man ;  and  now  I  thought  he  looked 
rather  roughly  at  my  old  shooting  jacket. 
But  I  let  him  look,  and  scowled  at  him  a 
little,  for  I  remembered  that  he  had  feruled 
me  once.  I  thought  it  was  not  probable  that 
he  would  ever  do  it  again. 

There  was  a  bustling  little  lawyer  in  the 
village  who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  who 
was  the  great  man  of  that  town  and  country 
— he  had  scarce  changed  at  all ;  and  he 
stepped  into  the  church  as  briskly  and 
promptly  as  he  did  ten  years  ago.  But  what 
struck  me  most  was  the  change  in  a  couple 
of  pretty  little  white-haired  girls  that  at  the 
time  I  left  were  of  that  uncertain  age  when 
the  mother  lifts  them  on  a  Sunday  and 
pounces  them  down  one  after  the  other  upon 
the  seat  of  the  pew ;  these  were  now  grown 
into  blooming  young  ladies.  And  they  swept 
by  me  in  the  vestibule  of  the  church,  with  a 
flutter  of  robes  and  a  grace  of  motion  that 
fairly  made  my  heart  twitter  in  my  bosom. 
I  know  nothing  that  brings  home  upon  a 
man  so  quick  the  consciousness  of  increasing 

I 


264  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

years  as  to  find  the  little  prattling  girls,  that 
were  almost  babies  in  his  boyhood,  become 
dashing  ladies,  and  to  find  those  whom  he 
used  to  look  on  patronizingly  and  compas 
sionately,  thinking  they  were  little  girls, 
grown  to  such  maturity  that  the  mere  rustle 
of  their  silk  dresses  will  give  him  a  twinge, 
and  their  eyes,  if  he  looks  at  them,  make  him 
unaccountably  shy. 

After  service  I  strolled  up  by  the  school 
buildings;  I  traced  the  names  that  we  had 
cut  upon  the  fence ;  but  the  fence  had  grown 
brown  with  age,  and  was  nearly  rotted  away. 
Upon  the  beech  tree  in  the  hollow  behind 
the  school  the  carvings  were  all  overgrown. 
It  must  have  been  vacation,  if  indeed 
there  was  any  school  at  all ;  for  I  could 
see  only  one  old  woman  about  the  premises, 
and  she  was  hanging  out  a  dishcloth  to  dry 
in  the  sun.  I  passed  on  up  the  hill,  beyond 
the  buildings,  where  in  the  boy-days  we  built 
stone  forts  with  bastions  and  turrets ;  but 
the  farmers  had  put  the  bastions  and  turrets 
into  their  cobblestone  walls.  At  the  orchard 
fence  I  stopped  and  looked — from  force,  I 
believe,  of  old  habit — to  see  if  any  one  were 
watching — and  then  leaped  over,  and  found 
my  way  to  the  early-apple  tree ;  but  the  fruit 
had  gone  by.  It  seemed  very  daring  in  me, 


SCHOOL   REVISITED  265 

even  then,  to  walk  so  boldly  in  the  forbidden 
ground. 

But  the  old  head-master  who  forbade  it 
was  dead,  and  Russell  and  Burgess,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  others,  who  in  other 
times  were  culprits  with  me,  were  dead,  too. 
When  I  passed  back  by  the  school  I  lingered 
to  look  up  at  the  windows  of  that  corner 
room, .where  I  had  slept  the  sound,  healthful 
sleep  of  boyhood — and  where,  too,  I  had 
passed  many,  many  wakeful  hours,  thinking 
of  the  absent  Bella,  and  of  my  home. 

— How  small,  seemed  now,  the  great 
griefs  of  boyhood !  Light  floating  clouds 
will  obscure  the  sun  that  is  but  half  risen ; 
but  let  him  be  up — mid-heaven,  and  the 
cloud  that  then  darkens  the  land  must  be 
thick  and  heavy  indeed. 

— The  tears  started  from  my  eyes — was 
not  such  a  cloud  over  me  now  ? 


COLLEGE 


SCHOOLMATES  slip  out  of  sight  and  knowl 
edge,  and  are  forgotten ;  or  if  you  meet  them 
they  bear  another  character ;  the  boy  is  not 
there.  It  is  a  new  acquaintance  that  you 
make,  with  nothing  of  your  fellow  upon  the 
benches  but  the  name.  Though  the  eye  and 
face  cleave  to  your  memory,  and  you  meet 
them  afterward,  and  think  you  have  met  a 
friend — the  voice  or  the  action  will  break 
down  the  charm,  and  you  find  only — another 
man. 

But  with  your  classmates  in  that  later 
school,  where  form  and  character  were  both 
nearer  ripeness,  and  where  knowledge,  la 
bored  for  together,  bred  the  first  manly 
sympathies — it  is  different.  And  as  you 
meet  them,  or  hear  of  them,  the  thought  of 
267 


268  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

their  advance  makes  a  measure  of  your  own 
— it  makes  a  measure  of  the  NOW. 

You  judge  of  your  happiness  by  theirs — 
of  your  progress  by  theirs,  and  of  your  pros 
pects  by  theirs.  If  one  is  happy,  you  seek  to 
trace  out  the  way  by  which  he  has  wrought 
his  happiness ;  you  consider  how  it  differs 
from  your  own ;  and  you  think  with  sighs 
how  you  might  possibly  have  wrought  the 
same ;  but  now  it  has  escaped.  If  another 
has  won  some  honorable  distinction,  you  fall 
to  thinking  how  the  man — your  old  equal,  as 
you  thought,  upon  the  college  benches — has 
outrun  you.  It  pricks  to  effort,  and  teaches 
the  difference  between  now  and  then.  Life, 
with  all  its  duties  and  hopes,  gathers  upon 
your  present  like  a  great  weight,  or  like  a 
storm  ready  to  burst.  It  is  met  anew ;  it 
pleads  more  strongly ;  and  action  that  has 
been  neglected  rises  before  you — a  giant  of 
remorse. 

Stop  not,  loiter  not,  look  not  backward,  if 
you  would  be  among  the  foremost !  The 
great  Now,  so  quick,  so  broad,  so  fleeting,  is 
yours — in  an  hour  it  will  belong  to  the  eter 
nity  of  the  past.  The  temper  of  life  is  to  be 
made  good  by  big,  honest  blows ;  stop  strik 
ing,  and  you  will  do  nothing ;  strike  feebly, 
and  you  will  do  almost  as  little.  Success 


COLLEGE  269 

rides  on  every  hour ;  grapple  it,  and  you 
may  win  ;  but  without  a  grapple  it  will  never 
go  with  you.  Work  is  the  weapon  of  honor, 
and  who  lacks  the  weapon  will  never  tri 
umph. 

There  were  some  seventy  of  us — all  scat 
tered  now.  I  meet  one  here  and  there  at 
wide  distances  apart ;  and  we  talk  together 
of  old  days,  and  of  our  present  work  and 
life — and  separate.  Just  so  ships  at  sea,  in 
murky  weather,  will  shift  their  course  to 
come  within  hailing  distance,  and  compare 
their  longitude,  and — part.  One  I  have  met 
wandering  in  southern  Italy,  dreaming — as 
I  was  dreaming — over  the  tomb  of  Virgil, 
by  the  dark  grotto  of  Pausilippo.  It  seemed 
strange  to  talk  of  our  old  readings  in 
Tacitus  there  upon  classic  ground;  but  we 
did ;  and  ran  on  to  talk  of  our  lives ;  and, 
sitting  down  upon  the  promontory  of  Baie, 
looking  off  upon  that  blue  sea,  as  clear  as 
the  classics,  we  told  each  other  our  respec 
tive  stories.  And  two  nights  after,  upon  the 
quay,  in  sight  of  Vesuvius,  which  shed  a 
lurid  glow  upon  the  sky  that  was  reflected 
from  the  white  walls  of  the  Hotel  de  Russie, 
and  from  the  broad  lava  pavements,  we 
parted — he  to  wander  among  the  isles  of  the 
JEgean,  and  I  to  turn  northward. 


27O  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

Another  time,  as  I  was  wandering  among 
those  mysterious  figures  that  crowd  the 
foyer  of  the  French  opera  upon  a  night  of 
the  Masked  Ball,  I  saw  a  familiar  face ;  I 
followed  it  with  my  eye  until  I  became  con 
vinced.  He  did  not  know  me  until  I  named 
his  old  seat  upon  the  bench  of  the  division 

rooms,  and  the  hard-faced  Tutor  G . 

Then  we  talked  of  the  old  rivalries,  and 
Christmas  jollities,  and  of  this  and  that  one, 
whom  we  had  come  upon  in  our  wayward 
tracks ;  while  the  black-robed  grisettes 
stared  through  their  velvet  masks ;  nor  did 
we  tire  of  comparing  the  old  memories  with 
the  unearthly  gayety  of  the  scene  about  us 
until  daylight  broke. 

In  a  quiet  mountain  town  of  New  Eng 
land  I  came  not  long  since  upon  another ;  he 
was  hale  and  hearty,  and  pushing  his  lawyer 
work  with  just  the  same  nervous  energy 
with  which  he  used  to  recite  a  theorem  of 
Euclid.  He  was  father,  too,  of  a  couple  of 
stout,  curly-pated  boys ;  and  his  good  wom 
an,  as  he  called  her,  appeared  a  sensible, 
honest,  good-natured  lady.  I  must  say  that 
I  envied  him  his  wife  much  more  than  I  had 
envied  my  companion  of  the  opera  his 
Domine. 

I  happened  only  a  little  while  ago  to  drop 


COLLEGE  271 

into  the  college  chapel  of  a  Sunday.  There 
were  the  same  hard  oak  benches  below,  and 
the  lucky  fellows  who  enjoyed  a  corner  seat 
were  leaning  back  upon  the  rail,  after  the 
old  fashion.  The  tutors  were  perched  up  in 
their  side  boxes,  looking  as  prim  and  serious 
and  important  as  ever.  The  same  stout  doc 
tor  read  the  hymn  in  the  same  rhythmical 
way ;  and  he  prayed  the  same  prayer  for  ( I 
thought)  the  same  old  sort  of  sinners.  As  I 
shut  my  eyes  to  listen,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
intermediate  years  had  all  gone  out,  and 
that  I  was  on  my  own  pew  bench,  and  think 
ing  out  those  little  schemes  for  excuses,  or 
for  effort,  which  were  to  relieve  me,  or  to 
advance  me,  in  my  college  world. 

There  was  a  pleasure,  like  the  pleasure  of 
dreaming  about  forgotten  joys,  in  listening 
to  the  doctor's  sermon  ;  he  began  in  the  same 
half  embarrassed,  half  awkward  way,  and 
fumbled  at  his  Bible  leaves,  and  the  poor 
pinched  cushion,  as  he  did  long  before.  But 
as  he  went  on  with  his  rusty  and  polemic 
vigor,  the  poetry  within  him  would  now  and 
then  warm  his  soul  into  a  burst  of  fervid 
eloquence,  and  his  face  would  glow  and  his 
hand  tremble,  and  the  cushion  and  the  Bible 
leaves  be  all  forgot,  in  the  glow  of  his 
thought,  until,  with  a  half  cough  and  a  pinch 


2/2  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

at  the  cushion,  he  fell  back  into  his  strong 
but  tread-mill  argumentation. 

In  the  corner  above  was  the  stately,  white- 
haired  professor,  wearing  the  old  dignity  of 
carriage,  and  a  smile  as  bland  as  if  the  years 
had  all  been  playthings ;  and  had  I  seen  him 
in  his  lecture-room,  I  daresay  I  should  have 
found  the  same  suavity  of  address,  the  same 
marvelous  currency  of  talk,  and  the  same  in 
finite  composure  over  the  exploding  retorts. 

Near  him  was  the  silver-haired  old  gen 
tleman — with  a  very  astute  expression — who 
used  to  have  an  odd  habit  of  tightening  his 
cloak  about  his  nether  limbs.  I  could  not 
see  that  his  eye  was  any  the  less  bright ;  nor 
did  he  seem  less  eager  to  catch  at  the  handle 
of  some  witticism  or  bit  of  satire — to  the 
poor  student's  cost.  I  remembered  my  old 
awe  of  him,  I  must  say,  with  something  of  a 
grudge ;  but  I  had  got  fairly  over  it  now. 
There  are  sharper  griefs  in  life  than  a  pro 
fessor's  talk. 

Farther  on,  I  saw  the  long-faced,  dark- 
haired  man  who  looked  as  if  he  were  always 
near  some  explosive,  electric  battery,  or 
upon  an  insulated  stool.  He  was,  I  believe, 
a  man  of  fine  feelings ;  but  he  had  a  way  of 
reducing  all  action  to  dry,  hard,  mathemat 
ical  system,  with  very  little  poetry  about  it. 


COLLEGE  273 

I  know  there  was  not  much  poetry  in  his 
problems  in  physics,  and  still  less  in  his  half- 
yearly  examinations.  But  I  do  not  dread 
them  now. 

Over  opposite,  I  was  glad  to  see  still  the 
aged  head  of  the  kind  and  generous  old  man 
who  in  my  day  presided  over  the  college, 
and  who  carried  with  him  the  affections  of 
each  succeeding  class — added  to  their  re 
spect  for  his  learning.  This  seems  a  higher 
triumph  to  me  now  than  it  seemed  then.  A 
strong  mind,  or  a  cultivated  mind,  may 
challenge  respect ;  but  there  is  needed  a 
noble  one  to  win  affection. 

A  new  man  now  filled  his  place  in  the 
president's  seat,  but  he  was  one  whom  I  had 
known  and  been  proud  to  know.  His  figure 
was  bent  and  thin — the  very  figure  that  an 
old  Flemish  master  would  have  chosen  for 
a  scholar.  His  eye  had  a  kind  of  piercing 
luster,  as  if  it  had  long  been  fixed  on  books  ; 
and  his  expression — when  unrelieved  by  his 
affable  smile — was  that  of  hard  midnight 
toil.  With  all  his  polish  of  mind,  he  was  a 
gentleman  at  heart,  and  treated  us  always 
with  a  manly  courtesy  that  is  not  forgotten. 

But  of  all  the  faces  that  used  to  be  ranged 
below — four  hundred  men  and  boys — there 
was  not  one  with  whom  to  join  hands  and 


274  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

live  back  again.  Their  griefs,  joy  and  toil 
were  chaining  them  to  their  labor  of  life. 
Each  one  in  his  thought  coursing  over  a 
world  as  wide  as  my  own — how  many  thou 
sand  worlds  of  thought  upon  this  one  world 
of  ours ! 

I  stepped  dreamily  through  the  corridors 
of  the  old  Atheneum,  thinking  of  that  first 
fearful  step,  when  the  faces  were  new  and 
the  stern  tutor  was  strange,  and  the  prolix 
Livy  so  hard.  I  went  up  at  night,  and 
skulked  around  the  buildings  when  the 
lights  were  blazing  from  all  the  windows, 
and  they  were  busy  with  their  tasks — plain 
tasks,  and  easy  tasks — because  they  are 
certain  tasks.  Happy  fellows — thought  I — 
who  have  only  to  do  what  is  set  before  you 
to  be  done.  But  the  time  is  coming,  and  very 
fast,  when  you  must  not  only  do,  but  know 
what  to  do.  The  time  is  coming  when,  in 
place  of  your  one  master,  you  will  have  a 
thousand  masters — masters  of  duty,  of  busi 
ness,  of  pleasure,  and  of  grief — giving  you 
harder  lessons,  each  one  of  them,  than  any 
of  your  Fluxions. 

MORNING  will  pass,  and  the  NOON  will 
come — hot  and  scorching. 


THE   PACKET   OF   BELLA 

I  HAVE  not  forgotten  that  packet  of  Bella ; 
I  did  not  once  forget  it.  And  when  I  saw 
Lilly — now  the  grown-up  Lilly,  happy  in 
her  household,  and  blithe  as  when  she  was  a 
maiden — she  gave  it  to  me.  She  told  me, 
too,  of  Bella's  illness,  and  of  her  suffering, 
and  of  her  manner  when  she  put  the  little 
packet  in  her  hand  "for  Cousin  Paul."  But 
this  I  will  not  repeat — I  can  not. 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  I  shuddered 
at  the  mention  of  her  name.  There  are  some 
who  will  talk,  at  table  and  in  their  gossip,  of 
dead  friends  ;  I  wonder  how  they  do  it?  For 
myself,  when  the  grave  has  closed  its  gates 
275 


276  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

on  the  faces  of  those  I  love — however  busy 
my  mournful  thought  may  be — the  tongue 
is  silent.  I  can  not  name  their  names;  it 
shocks  me  to  hear  them  named.  It  seems 
like  tearing  open  half-healed  wounds,  and 
disturbing  with  harsh,  worldly  noise  the 
sweet  sleep  of  death. 

I  loved  Bella.  I  know  not  how  I  loved 
her — whether  as  a  lover,  or  as  a  husband 
loves  a  wife ;  I  only  know  this — I  always 
loved  her.  She  was  so  gentle — so  beautiful 
— so  confiding,  that  I  never  once  thought 
but  that  the  whole  world  loved  her  as  well 
as  I.  There  was  only  one  thing  I  never  told 
to  Bella;  I  would  tell  her  of  all  my  grief, 
and  of  all  my  joys ;  I  would  tell  her  my 
hopes,  my  ambitious  dreams,  my  disappoint 
ments,  my  anger,  and  my  dislikes ;  but  I 
never  told  her  how  much  I  loved  her. 

I  do  not  know  why,  unless  I  knew  that  it 
was  needless.  But  I  should  as  soon  have 
thought  of  telling  Bella  on  some  winter's 
day — Bella,  it  is  winter — or  of  whispering 
to  her  on  some  balmy  day  of  August — Bella, 
it  is  summer — as  of  telling  her,  after  she  had 
grown  to  girlhood — Bella,  I  love  you ! 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  her  in  the 
old  countries ;  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  in  which 


THE   PACKET   OF   BELLA  277 

she  told  me  all  that  she  had  been  doing,  and 
how  she  had  thought  of  me,  when  she  ram 
bled  over  the  woods  where  we  had  rambled 
together.  She  had  written  two  or  three 
other  letters,  Lilly  told  me,  but  they  had 
never  reached  me.  I  had  told  her,  too,  of  all 
that  made  my  happiness ;  I  wrote  her  about 
the  sweet  girl  I  had  seen  on  shipboard,  and 
how  I  met  her  afterward,  and  what  a  happy 
time  we  passed  down  in  Devon.  I  even  told 
her  of  the  strange  dream  I  had,  in  which 
Isabel  seemed  to  be  in  England,  and  to  turn 
away  from  me  sadly  because  I  called — 
Carry. 

I  also  told  her  of  all  I  saw  in  that  great 
world  of  Paris — writing  as  I  would  write  to 
a  sister ;  and  I  told  her,  too,  of  the  sweet 
Roman  girl,  Enrica — of  her  brown  hair,  and 
of  her  rich  eyes,  and  of  her  pretty  Carnival 
dresses.  And  when  I  missed  letter  after  let 
ter  I  told  her  that  she  must  still  write  her 
letters,  or  some  little  journal,  and  read  it  to 
me  when  I  came  back.  I  thought  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  sit  under  the  trees  by 
her  father's  house  and  listen  to  her  tender 
voice  going  through  that  record  of  her 
thoughts  and  fears.  Alas,  how  our  hopes 
betray  us ! 


2/8  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

It  began  almost  like  a  diary,  about  the 
time  her  father  fell  sick.  "It  is" — said  she 
to  Lilly,  when  she  gave  it  to  her,  "what  I 
would  have  said  to  Cousin  Paul  if  he  had 
been  here." 

It  begins:  " — I  have  come  back  now  to 
father's  house ;  I  could  not  leave  him  alone, 
for  they  told  me  he  was  sick.  I  found  him 
not  well ;  he  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and 
kissed  me  so  tenderly  that  I  am  sure,  Cousin 
Paul,  you  would  not  have  said,  as  you  used 
to  say,  that  he  was  a  cold  man !  I  sometimes 
read  to  him,  sitting  in  the  deep  library  win 
dow  (you  remember  it),  where  we  used  to 
nestle  out  of  his  sight  at  dusk.  He  can  not 
read  any  more. 

"I  would  give  anything  to  see  the  little 
Carry  you  speak  of ;  but  do  you  know  you 
did  not  describe  her  to  me  at  all ;  will  you 
not  tell  me  if  she  has  dark  hair,  or  light,  or 
if  her  eyes  are  blue,  or  dark,  like  mine  ?  Is 
she  good ;  did  she  not  make  ugly  speeches, 
or  grow  peevish,  in  those  long  days  upon 
the  ocean  ?  How  I  would  have  liked  to  have 
been  with  you,  on  those  clear  starlit  nights, 
looking  off  upon  the  water !  But  then  I 
think  that  you  would  not  have  wished  me 
there,  and  that  you  did  not  once  think  of  me 


THE   PACKET   OF   BELLA  279 

even.  This  makes  me  sad ;  yet  I  know  not 
why  it  should ;  for  I  always  liked  you  best, 
when  you  were  happy;  and  I  am  sure  you 
must  have  been  happy  then.  You  say  you 
shall  never  see  her  after  you  have  left  the 
ship  ;  you  must  not  think  so,  cousin  Paul ;  if 
she  is  so  beautiful,  and  fond,  as  you  tell  me, 
your  own  heart  will  lead  you  in  her  way 
some  time  again  ;  I  feel  almost  sure  of  it. 

*  *     *     "Father   is   getting  more   and 
more  feeble,  and  wandering  in  his  mind ; 
this  is  very  dreadful ;  he  calls  me  sometimes 
by  my  mother's  name  ;  and  when  I  say — it  is 
Isabel — he  says — what  Isabel !  and  treats  me 
as  if  I  was  a  stranger.  The  physician  shakes 
his  head  when  I  ask  him  of  father ;  oh,  Paul, 
if  he  should  die — what  could  I  do?  I  should 
die,   too — I   know   I   should.    Who  would 
there  be  to  care  for  me?   Lilly  is  married, 
and  Ben  is  far  off,  and  you,  Paul,  whom  I 
love  better  than  either,  are  a  long  way  from 
me.  But  God  is  good,  and  He  will  spare  my 
father. 

*  *     *     "So  you  have  seen  again  your 
little  Carry.   I  told  you  it  would  be  so.  You 
tell  me  how  accidental  it  was ;  ah,   Paul, 
Paul,  you  rogue,  honest  as  you  are,  I  half 
doubt  you  there !   I  like  your  description  of 


28o  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

her,  too — dark  eyes  like  mine,  you  say — 
'almost  as  pretty ;'  well,  Paul,  I  will  forgive 
you  that ;  it  is  only  a  white  lie.  You  know 
they  must  be  a  great  deal  prettier  than  mine, 
or  you  would  never  have  stayed  a  whole 
fortnight  in  an  old  farmer's  house  far  down 
in  Devon!  I  wish  I  could  see  her;  I  wish 
she  was  here  with  you  now ;  for  it  is  mid 
summer,  and  the  trees  and  flowers  were 
never  prettier.  But  I  am  all  alone ;  father  is 
too  ill  to  go  out  at  all.  I  fear  now  very  much 
that  he  will  never  go  out  again.  Lilly  was 
here  yesterday,  but  he  did  not  know  her. 
She  read  me  your  last  letter ;  it  was  not  so 
long  as  mine.  You  are  very — very  good  to 
me,  Paul. 

"For  a  long  time  I  have  written 
nothing ;  my  father  has  been  very  ill,  and  the 
old  housekeeper  has  been  sick,  too,  and 
father  would  have  no  one  but  me  near  him. 
He  can  not  live  long.  I  feel  sadly — miser 
ably  ;  you  will  not  know  me  when  you  come 
home ;  your  'pretty  Bella' — as  you  used  to 
call  me — will  have  lost  all  her  beauty.  But 
perhaps  you  will  not  care  for  that,  for  you 
tell  me  you  have  found  one  prettier  than 
ever.  I  do  not  know,  Cousin  Paul,  but  it  is 
because  I  am  so  sad  and  selfish — for  sorrow 


THE   PACKET   OF   BELLA  28 1 

is  selfish — but  I  do  not  like  your  raptures 
about  the  Roman  girl.  Be  careful,  Paul ;  I 
know  your  heart ;  it  is  quick  and  sensitive ; 
and  I  dare  say  she  is  pretty  and  has  beau 
tiful  eyes ;  for  they  tell  me  all  the  Italian 
girls  have  soft  eyes. 

"But  Italy  is  far  away,  Paul ;  I  can  never 
see  Enrica ;  she  will  never  come  here.  No — 
no,  remember  Devon.  I  feel  as  if  Carry  was 
a  sister  now.  I  can  not  feel  so  of  the  Roman 
girl ;  I  do  not  want  to  feel  so.  You  will  say 
this  is  harsh,  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  not 
like  me  so  well  for  it;  but  I  can  not  help 
saying  it.  I  love  you  too  well,  Cousin  Paul, 
not  to  say  it. 

"It  is  all  over !  Indeed,  Paul,  I 
am  very  desolate !  'The  golden  bowl  is 
broken' — my  poor  father  has  gone  to  his  last 
home.  I  was  expecting  it ;  but  how  can  we 
expect  that  fearful  comer — death?  He  had 
been  for  a  long  time  so  feeble  that  he  could 
scarce  speak  at  all ;  he  sat  for  hours  in  his 
chair,  looking  upon  the  fire  or  looking  out  at 
the  window.  He  would  hardly  notice  me 
when  I  came  to  change  his  pillows  or  to 
smooth  them  for  his  head.  But  before  he 
died  he  knew  me  as  well  as  ever.  'Isabel/  he 
said,  'you  have  been  a  good  daughter.  God 


282  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

will  reward  you !'  and  he  kissed  me  so  ten 
derly,  and  looked  after  me  so  anxiously, 
with  such  intelligence  in  his  look  that  I 
thought  perhaps  he  would  revive  again.  In 
the  evening  he  asked  me  for  one  of  his  books 
that  he  loved  very  much.  'Father,'  said  I, 
'you  can  not  read  ;  it  is  almost  dark/ 

"  'Oh,  yes,'  said  he,  'Isabel,  I  can  read 
now.'  And  I  brought  it ;  he  kept  my  hand  a 
long  while  ;  then  he  opened  the  book — it  was 
a  book  about  death. 

"I  brought  a  candle,  for  I  knew  he  could 
not  read  without. 

"  'Isabel,  dear,'  said  he,  'put  the  candle  a 
little  nearer.'  But  it  was  close  beside  him 
even  then. 

"  'A  little  nearer,  Isabel,'  repeated  he,  and 
his  voice  was  very  faint,  and  he  grasped  my 
hand  hard. 

— "  'Nearer,  Isabel ! — nearer !' 

"There  was  no  need  to  do  it,  for  my  poor 
father  was  dead !  Oh  !  Paul,  Paul ! — pity 
me.  I  do  not  know  but  I  am  crazed.  It  does 
not  seem  the  same  world  it  was.  And  the 
house,  and  the  trees,  oh,  they  are  very  dis 
mal! 

"I  wish  you  would  come  home,  Cousin 
Paul ;  life  would  not  be  so  very,  very  blank 


THE   PACKET   OF   BELLA 

as  it  is  now.  Lilly  is  kind — I  thank  her  from 
my  heart.  But  it  is  not  her  father  who  is 
dead! 

*  *     *     "I  am  calmer  now ;  I  am  stay 
ing  with  Lilly.    The  world  seems  smaller 
than  it  did ;  but  heaven  seems  a  great  deal 
larger ;  there  is  a  place  for  us  all  there,  Paul 
— if  we  only  seek  it !  They  tell  me  you  are 
coming  home.  I  am  glad.  You  will  not  like, 
perhaps,  to  come   away   from  that  pretty 
Enrica  you  speak  of ;  but  do  so,  Paul.    It 
seems  to  me  that  I  see  clearer  than  I  did, 
and  I  talk  bolder.    The  girlish  Isabel  you 
will  not  find,  for  I  am  much  older,  and  my 
air  is  more  grave,  and  this  suffering  has 
made  me  feeble — very  feeble. 

*  *     *     "It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  write, 
but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  just  found 
out  who  your  Carry  is.    Years  ago,  when 
you  were  away  from  home,  I  was  at  school 
with  her.  We  were  always  together.  I  won 
der  I  could  not  have  found  her  out  from 
your  description ;  but  I  did  not  even  suspect 
it.    She  is  a  dear  girl,  and  is  worthy  of  all 
your  love.    I  have  seen  her  once  since  you 
have  met  her ;  we  talked  of  you.   She  spoke 
kindly — very  kindly ;  more  than  this  I  can 
not  tell  you,  for  I  do  not  know  more.   Ah, 


284  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

Paul,  may  you  be  happy !   I  feel  as  if  I  had 
but  a  little  while  to  live. 

"It  is  even  so,  my  dear  Cousin 
Paul — I  shall  write  but  little  more  ;  my  hand 
trembles  now.  But  I  am  ready.  It  is  a  glori 
ous  world  beyond  this — I  know  it  is !  And 
there  we  shall  meet.  I  did  hope  to  see  you 
once  again,  and  to  hear  your  voice  speaking 
to  me  as  you  used  to  speak.  But  I  shall  not. 
Life  is  too  frail  with  me.  I  seem  to  live 
wholly  now  in  the  world  where  I  am  going 
— there  is  my  mother,  and  my  father,  and 
my  little  brother — we  shall  meet — I  know 
we  shall  meet ! 

*  *  *  "The  last — Paul.  Never  again 
in  this  world !  I  am  happy — very  happy. 
You  will  come  to  me.  I  can  write  no  more. 
May  good  angels  guard  you,  and  bring  you 
to  Heaven !" 

— Shall  I  go  on  ? 

But  the  toils  of  life  are  upon  me.  Private 
griefs  do  not  break  the  force  and  the  weight 
of  the  great — present.  A  life — at  best  the 
half  of  it,  is  before  me.  It  is  to  be  wrought 
out  writh  nerve  and  work.  And — blessed  be 
God !  there  are  gleams  of  sunlight  upon  it. 
That  sweet  Carry,  doubly  dear  to  me  now 


THE   PACKET   OF   BELLA 


that  she  is  joined  with  my  sorrow  for  the 
lost  Isabel — shall  be  sought  for ! 

And  with  her  sweet  image  floating  before 
me,  the  NOON  wanes,  and  the  shadows  of 
EVENING  lengthen  upon  the  land. 


ll'LJL 


Ill 


EVENING 

THE  future  is  a  great  land;  how  the 
lights  and  the  shadows  throng  over  it — 
bright  and  dark,  slow  and  swift !  Pride  and 
ambition  build  up  great  castles  on  its  plains 
— great  monuments  on  the  mountains,  that 
reach  heavenward,  and  dip  their  tops  in  the 
blue  of  Eternity !  Then  comes  an  earth 
quake — the  earthquake  of  disappointment, 
of  distrust,  or  of  inaction,  and  lays  them 
low.  Gaping  desolation  widens  its  breaches 
everywhere ;  the  eye  is  full  of  them,  and  can 
see  nothing  beside.  By  and  by  the  sun  peeps 
forth — as  now  from  behind  yonder  cloud — 
and  reanimates  the  soul. 
287 


288  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

Fame  beckons,  sitting  high  in  the  heav 
ens  ;  and  joy  lends  a  halo  to  the  vision.  A 
thousand  resolves  stir  your  heart ;  your  hand 
is  hot  and  feverish  for  action ;  your  brain 
works  madly,  and  you  snatch  here  and  you 
snatch  there,  in  the  convulsive  throes  of 
your  delirium.  Perhaps  you  see  some  ear 
nest,  careful  plodder,  once  far  behind  you, 
now  toiling  slowly  but  surely  over  the  plain 
of  life,  until  he  seems  near  to  grasping 
those  brilliant  phantoms  which  dance  along 
the  horizon  of  the  future ;  and  the  sight 
stirs  your  soul  to  frenzy,  and  you  bound  on 
after  him  with  the  madness  of  a  fever  in 
your  veins.  But  it  was  by  no  such  action 
that  the  fortunate  toiler  has  won  his  prog 
ress.  His  hand  is  steady,  his  brain  is  cool ; 
his  eye  is  fixed  and  sure. 

The  Future  is  a  great  land  ;  a  man  can  not 
go  round  it  in  a  day ;  he  can  not  measure  it 
with  a  bound ;  he  can  not  bind  its  harvests 
into  a  single  sheaf.  It  is  wider  than  the 
vision,  and  has  no  end. 

Yet  always,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour, 
second  by  second,  the  hard  present  is  elbow 
ing  us  off  into  that  great  land  of  the  future. 
Our  souls,  indeed,  wander  to  it,  as  to  a 
home-land ;  thej  run  beyond  time  and  space, 


EVENING  289 

beyond  planets  and  suns,  beyond  far-off 
suns  and  comets,  until,  like  blind  flies,  they 
are  lost  in  the  blaze  of  immensity,  and  can 
only  grope  their  way  back  to  our  earth,  and 
our  time,  by  the  cunning  of  instinct. 

Cut  out  the  future — even  that  little  future 
which  is  the  EVENING  of  our  life — and  what 
a  fall  into  vacuity.  Forbid  those  earnest 
forays  over  the  borders  of  Now,  and  on 
what  spoils  would  the  soul  live  ? 

For  myself,  I  delight  to  wander  there, 
and  to  weave  every  day  the  passing  life  into 
the  coming  life — so  closely  that  I  may  be 
unconscious  of  the  joining.  And  if  so  be 
that  I  am  able,  I  would  make  the  whole 
piece  bear  fair  proportions  and  just  figures 
— like  those  tapestries  on  which  nuns  work 
by  inches  and  finish  with  their  lives,  or  like 
those  grand  frescos  which  poet  artists  have 
wrought  on  the  vaults  of  old  cathedrals, 
gaunt  and  colossal — appearing  mere  daubs 
of  carmine  and  azure,  as  they  lay  upon  their 
backs,  working  out  a  hand's  breadth  at  a 
time — but  when  complete,  showing  symmet 
rical  and  glorious. 

But  not  alone  does  the  soul  wrander  to 
those  glittering  heights  where  fame  sits,  with 
plumes  waving  in  zephyrs  of  applause ;  there 


2QO  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

belong  to  it  other  appetities,  which"  range 
wide  and  constantly  over  the  broad  future- 
land.  We  are  not  merely  working,  intellec 
tual  machines,  but  social  puzzles,  whose 
solution  is  the  work  of  a  life.  Much  as  hope 
may  mean  toward  the  intoxicating  joy  of 
distinction,  there  is  another  leaning  in  the 
soul,  deeper  and  stronger,  toward  those 
pleasures  which  the  heart  pants  for,  and  in 
whose  atmosphere  the  affections  bloom  and 
ripen. 

The  first  may  indeed  be  uppermost ;  it 
may  be  noisiest;  it  may  drown  with  the 
clamor  of  midday  the  nicer  sympathies.  But 
all  our  day  is  not  midday,  and  all  our  life  is 
not  noise.  Silence  is  as  strong  as  the  soul ; 
and  there  is  no  tempest  so  wild  with  blasts 
but  has  a  wilder  lull.  There  lies  in  the  depth 
of  every  man's  soul  a  mine  of  affection, 
which  from  time  to  time  will  burn  with  the 
seething  heat  of  a  volcano  and  heave  up 
lava-like  monuments,  through  all  the  cold 
strata  of  his  commoner  nature. 

One  may  hide  his  warmer  feelings — he 
may  paint  them  dimly — he  may  crowd  them 
out  of  his  sailing  chart,  where  he  only  sets 
down  the  harbors  for  traffic ;  yet  in  his  se 
cret  heart  he  will  map  out  upon  the  great 


EVENING  291 

country  of  the  Future  fairy  islands  of  love 
and  of  joy.  There  he  will  be  sure  to  wander 
when  his  soul  is  lost  in  those  quiet  and  -ial- 
lowed  hopes  which  take  hold  on  heaven. 

Love,  only,  unlocks  the  door  upon  that 
futurity  where  the  isles  of  the  blessed  lie 
like  stars.  Affection  is  the  stepping-stone  to 
God.  The  heart  is  our  only  measure  of  in 
finitude.  The  mind  tires  with  greatness ;  the 
heart — never.  Thought  is  worried  and 
weakened  in  its  flight  through  the  immen 
sity  of  space ;  but  love  soars  around  the 
throne  of  the  Highest,  with  added  blessing 
and  strength. 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others, 
but  with  me  the  heart  is  a  readier  and  quick 
er  builder  of  those  fabrics  which  strew  the 
great  country  of  the  Future  than  the  mind. 
They  may  not  indeed  rise  so  high  as  the 
dizzy  pinnacles  that  ambition  loves  to  rear ; 
but  they  lie  like  fragrant  islands  in  a  sea 
whose  ripple  is  a  continuous  melody. 

And  as  I  muse  now,  looking  toward  the 
EVENING,  which  is  already  begun — tossed  as 
I  am  with  the  toils  of  the  past,  and  bewil 
dered  with  the  vexations  of  the  present,  my 
affections  are  the  architect  that  build  up  the 
future  refuge.  And,  in  fancy  at  least,  I  will 


292 


REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 


build  it  boldly — saddened,  it  may  be,  by  the 
chance  shadows  of  evening ;  but  through  all 
I  will  hope  for  a  sunset,  when  the  day  ends, 
glorious  with  crimson  and  gold. 


I  SAID  that  harsh  and  hot  as  was  the 
present,  there  were  joyous  gleams  of  light 
playing  over  the  future.  How  else  could  it 
be,  when  that  fair  being  whom  I  met  first 
upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  and  whose  name, 
even,  is  hallowed  by  the  dying  words  of 
Isabel,  is  living  in  the  same  world  with  me  ? 
Amid  all  the  perplexities  that  haunt  me,  as 
I  wander  from  the  present  to  the  future,  the 
thought  of  her  image,  of  her  smile,  of  her 
last  kind  adieu,  throws  a  dash  of  sunlight 
upon  my  path. 

And  yet  why  ?  Is  it  not  very  idle  ?  Years 
have  passed  since  I  have  seen  her ;  I  do  not 
293 


294  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

even  know  where  she  may  be.  What  is  she 
tome? 

My  heart  whispers — very  much !  but  I  do 
not  listen  to  that  in  my  prouder  moods.  She 
is  a  woman,  a  beautiful  woman  indeed, 
whom  I  have  known  once — pleasantly 
known :  she  is  living,  but  she  will  die,  or  she 
will  marry ;  I  shall  hear  of  it  by  and  by,  and 
sigh,  perhaps — nothing  more.  Life  is  ear 
nest  around  me ;  there  is  no  time  to  delve 
in  the  past  for  bright  things  to  shed  radi 
ance  on  the  future. 

I  will  forget  the  sweet  girl  who  was  with 
me  upon  the  ocean,  and  think  she  is  dead. 
This  manly  soul  is  strong,  if  we  would  but 
think  so;  it  can  make  a  puppet  of  griefs, 
and  take  down  and  set  up  at  will  the  sym 
bols  of  its  hope. 

— But  no,  I  can  not ;  the  more  I  think 
thus,  the  less  I  really  think  thus.  A  single 
smile  of  that  frail  girl,  when  I  recall  it, 
mocks  all  my  proud  purposes,  as  if,  with 
out  her,  my  purposes  were  nothing. 

— Pshaw  !  I  say — it  is  idle  !  and  I  bury  my 
thought  in  books,  and  in  long  hours  of  toil ; 
but  as  the  hours  lengthen,  and  my  head 
sinks  with  fatigue,  and  the  shadows  of  even 
ing  play  around  me,  there  comes  again  that 


CARRY  295 

sweet  vision,  saying  with  tender  mockery — 
is  it  idle?  And  I  am  helpless,  and  am  led 
away  hopefully  and  joyfully  toward  the 
golden  gates  which  open  on  the  Future. 

But  this  is  only  in  those  silent  hours  when 
the  man  is  alone  and  away  from  his  working 
thoughts.  At  midday,  or  in  the  rush  of  the 
world,  he  puts  hard  armor  on  that  reflects 
all  the  light  of  such  joyous  fancies.  He  is 
cold  and  careless,  and  ready  for  suffering, 
and  for  fight. 

One  day  I  am  traveling ;  I  am  absorbed 
in  some  present  cares — thinking  out  some 
plan  which  is  to  make  easier  or  more  suc 
cessful  the  voyage  of  life.  I  glance  upon  the 
passing  scenery,  and  upon  new  faces,  with 
that  careless  indifference  which  grows  upon 
a  man  with  years,  and,  above  all,  with  travel. 
There  is  no  wife  to  enlist  your  sympathies — 
no  children  to  sport  with ;  my  friends  are 
few  and  scattered,  and  are  working  out  fair 
ly  what  is  before  them  to  do.  Lilly  is  liv 
ing  here,  and  Ben  is  living  there ;  their  let 
ters  are  cheerful,  contented  letters  ;  and  they 
wish  me  well.  Griefs  even  have  grown  light 
with  wearing,  and  I  am  just  in  that  careless 
humor — as  if  I  said — jog  on,  old  world — 
jog  on !  And  the  end  will  come  along  soon, 


296  REVERIES   OF  A  BACHELOR 

and  we  shall  get — poor  devils  that  we  are — 
just  what  we  deserve ! 

But  on  a  sudden  my  eyes  rest  on  a  figure 
that  I  think  I  know.  Now  the  indifference 
flies  like  mist,  and  my  heart  throbs,  and  the 
old  visions  come  up.  I  watch  her,  as  if  there 
were  nothing  else  to  be  seen.  The  form  is 
hers  ;  the  grace  is  hers  ;  the  simple  dress — so 
neat,  so  tasteful — that  is  hers,  too.  She  half 
turns  her  head — it  is  the  face  that  I  saw  un 
der  the  velvet  cap  in  the  park  of  Devon. 

I  do  not  rush  forward ;  I  sit  as  if  I  were 
in  a  trance.  I  watch  her  every  action — the 
kind  attentions  to  her  mother  who  sits  be 
side  her — her  naive  exclamations  as  we  pass 
some  point  of  surpassing  beauty.  It  seems 
as  if  a  new  world  were  opening  to  me ;  yet 
I  can  not  tell  why.  I  keep  my  place,  and 
think,  and  gaze.  I  tear  the  paper  I  hold  in 
my  hand  into  shreds.  I  play  with  my  watch 
chain,  and  twist  the  seal  until  it  is  near 
breaking.  I  take  out  my  watch,  look  at  it, 
and  put  it  back — yet  I  can  not  tell  the  hour. 

— It  is  she — I  murmur — I  know  it  is 
Carry ! 

But  when  they  rise  to  leave,  my  lethargy 
is  broken ;  yet  it  is  with  a  trembling  hesita 
tion — a  faltering,  as  it  were,  between  the 


CARRY  297 

present  life  and  the  future — that  I  approach. 
She  knows  me  on  the  instant,  and  greets  me 
kindly — as  Bella  wrote — very  kindly,  yet 
she  shows  a  slight  embarrassment,  a  sweet 
embarrassment,  that  I  treasure  in  my  heart 
more  closely  even  than  the  greeting.  I 
change  my  course  and  travel  with  them ; 
now  we  talk  of  the  old  scenes,  and  two  hours 
seem  to  have  made  with  me  the  difference  of 
half  a  lifetime. 

It  is  five  years  since  I  parted  with  her, 
never  hoping  to  meet  again.  She  was  then 
a  frail  girl ;  she  is  now  just  rounding  into 
womanhood.  Her  eyes  are  as  dark  and  deep 
as  ever ;  the  lashes  that  fringe  them  seem  to 
me  even  longer  than  they  were.  Her  color 
is  as  rich,  her  forehead  as  fair,  her  smile  as 
sweet  as  they  were  before — only  a  little 
tinge  of  sadness  floats  upon  her  eye,  like  the- 
haze  upon  a  summer  landscape.  I  grow  bold 
to  look  upon  her,  and  timid  with  looking. 
We  talk  of  Bella ;  she  speaks  in  a  soft,  low 
voice,  and  .the  shade  of  sadness  on  her  face 
gathers — as  when  a  summer  mist  obscures 
the  sun.  I  talk  in  monosyllables  ;  I  can  com 
mand  no  other.  And  there  is  a  look  of  sym 
pathy  in  her  eye  when  I  speak  thus  that 
binds  my  soul  to  her  as  no  smiles  could  do. 


298  REVERIES   OF  A   BACHELOR 

What  can  draw  the  heart  into  the  fulness  of 
love  so  quick  as  sympathy  ? 

But  this  passes  ;  we  must  part,  she  for  her 
home,  and  I  for  that  broad  home  that  has 
been  mine  so  long — the  world.  It  seems 
broader  to  me  than  ever,  and  colder  than 
ever,  and  less  to  be  wished  for  than  ever.  A 
new  book  of  hope  is  sprung  wide  open  in  my 
life  :  a  hope  of  home ! 

We  are  to  meet  at  some  time  not  far  off 
in  the  city  where  I  am  living.  I  look  for 
ward  to  that  time  as  at  school  I  used  to  look 
for  vacation ;  it  is  a  point  d'appni  for  hope, 
for  thought,  and  for  countless  journeyings 
into  the  opening  future.  Never  did  I  keep 
the  dates  better,  never  count  the  days  more 
carefully,  whether  for  bonds  to  be  paid  or 
for  dividends  to  fall  due. 

I  welcome  the  time,  and  it  passes  like  a 
dream.  I  am  near  her,  often  as  I  dare ;  the 
hours  are  very  short  with  her,  and  very  long 
away.  She  receives  me  kindly — always  very 
kindly ;  she  could  not  be  otherwise  than 
kind.  But  is  it  anything  more?  This  is  a 
greedy  nature  of  ours,  and  when  sweet  kind 
ness  flows  upon  us  we  want  more.  I  know 
she  is  kind  ;  and  yet,  in  place  of  being  grate 
ful,  I  am  only  covetous  of  an  excess  of  kind 
ness. 


CARRY  299 

She  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely  ; 
ah,  no — trust  a  woman  for  that !  But  what 
have  I  or  what  am  I  to  ask  a  return?  She 
is  pure  and  gentle  as  an  angel,  and  I — alas 
— only  a  poor  soldier  in  our  world-fight 
against  the  devil !  Sometimes,  in  moods  of 
vanity,  I  call  up  what  I  fondly  reckon  my 
excellencies  or  deserts — a  sorry,  pitiful  ar 
ray  that  makes  me  shame-faced  when  I 
meet  her.  And  in  an  instant  I  banish  them 
all.  And  I  think  that  if  I  were  called  upon 
in  some  high  court  of  justice  to  say  why  I 
should  claim  her  indulgence  or  her  love,  I 
would  say  nothing  of  my  sturdy  effort  to 
beat  down  the  roughness  of  toil — nothing  of 
such  manliness  as  wears  a  calm  front  amid 
the  frowns  of  the  world — nothing  of  little 
triumphs  in  the  every-day  fight  of  life,  but 
only  I  would  enter  the  simple  plea — this 
heart  is  hers ! 

She  leaves ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of 
what  was  seething  within  me ;  how  I  curse 
my  folly!  She  is  gone,  and  never  perhaps 
will  return.  I  recall  in  despair  her  last  kind 
glance.  The  world  seems  blank  to  me.  She 
does  not  know ;  perhaps  she  does  not  care  if 
I  love  her.  Well,  I  will  bear  it.  But  I  can 
not  bear  it.  Business  is  broken ;  books  are 
blurred ;  something  remains  undone  that 


3OO  REVERIES    OF   A   BACHELOR 

fate  declares  must  be  done.  Not  a  place  can 
I  find  but  her  sweet  smile  gives  to  it  either 
a  tinge  of  gladness  or  a  black  shade  of  deso 
lation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant 
books ;  the  fire  is  burning  cheerfully ;  my 
dog  looks  up  earnestly  when  I  speak  to  him  ; 
but  it  will  never  do !  Her  image  sweeps 
away  all  these  comforts  in  a  flood.  I  fling 
down  my  book ;  I  turn  my  back  upon  my 
dog ;  the  fire  hisses  and  sparkles  in  mockery 
of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  brain — 
I  will  write  to  her — I  say.  And  a  smile  floats 
over  my  face — a  smile  of  hope,  ending  in 
doubt.  I  catch  up  my  pen — my  trusty  pen, 
and  the  clean  sheet  lies  before  me.  The 
paper  could  not  be  better,  nor  the  pen.  I 
have  written  hundreds  of  letters;  it  is  easy 
to  write  letters.  But  now,  it  is  not  easy. 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.  I  begin  again, 
and  get  on  a  little  farther — then  cross  it  out. 
I  try  again,  but  can  write  nothing.  I  fling 
down  my  pen  in  despair,  and  burn  the  sheet, 
and  go  to  my  library  for  some  old  sour 
treatise  of  Shaftesbury  or  Lyttleton,  and 
say — talking  to  myself  all  the  while — let  her 
go!  She  is  beautiful,  but  I  am  strong;  the 


CARRY  3OI 

world  is  short ;  we — I  and  my  dog,  and  my 
books,  and  my  pen,  will  battle  it  through 
bravely,  and  leave  enough  for  a  tombstone. 

But  even  as  I  say  it  the  tears  start — it  is 
all  false  saying!  And  I  throw  Shaftesbury 
across  the  room,  and  take  up  my  pen  again. 
It  glides  on  and  on  as  my  hope  glows,  and 
I  tell  her  of  our  first  meeting,  and  of  our 
hours  in  the  ocean  twilight,  and  of  our  un 
steady  stepping  on  the  heaving  deck,  and  of 
that  parting  in  the  noise  of  London,  and  of 
my  joy  at  seeing  her  in  the  pleasant  coun 
try,  and  of  my  grief  afterward.  And  then  I 
mention  Bella — her  friend  and  mine — and 
the  tears  flow ;  and  then  I  speak  of  our  last 
meeting,  and  of  my  doubts,  and  of  this  very 
evening — and  how  I  could  not  write,  and 
abandoned  it — and  then  felt  something 
within  me  that  made  me  write  and  tell  her — 
all ! — "That  my  heart  was  not  my  own,  but 
was  wholly  hers ;  and  that  if  she  would  be 
mine — I  would  cherish  her  and  love  her 
always !" 

Then  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness — a 
strange,  tumultuous  happiness,  into  which 
doubt  is  creeping  from  time  to  time,  bring 
ing  with  it  a  cold  shudder.  I  seal  the  letter, 
and  carry  it — a  great  weight — for  the  mail. 


302  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

It  seemed  as  if  there  could  be  no  other  let 
ter  that  day,  and  as  if  all  the  coaches  and 
horses  and  cars  and  boats  were  specially  de 
tailed  to  bear  that  single  sheet.  It  is  a  great 
letter  for  me ;  my  destiny  lies  in  it. 

I  do  not  sleep  well  that  night — it  is  a  toss 
ing  sleep ;  one  time  joy — sweet  and  holy  joy, 
comes  to  my  dreams,  and  an  angel  is  by  me ; 
another  time  the  angel  fades — the  bright 
ness  fades,  and  I  wake,  struggling  with  fear. 
For  many  nights  it  is  so,  until  the  day  comes 
on  which  I  am  looking  for  a  reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the 
letter  which  he  gives  me — although  it  con 
tains  no  promissory  notes,  nor  money,  nor 
deeds,  nor  articles  of  trade — is  yet  to  have  a 
greater  influence  upon  my  life  and  upon  my 
future,  than  all  the  letters  he  has  ever 
brought  to  me  before.  But  I  do  not  show 
him  this ;  nor  do  I  let  him  see  the  clutch 
with  which  I  grasp  it.  I  bear  it  as  if  it  were 
a  great  and  fearful  burden  to  my  room.  I 
lock  the  door,  and,  having  broken  the  seal 
with  a  quivering  hand — read : 


THE 


LETTER 


"Paul — for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so  now 
— I  know  not  how  to  answer  you.  Your  let 
ter  gave  me  great  joy ;  but  it  gave  me 
pain,  too.  I  can  not — will  not  doubt  what 
you  say;  I  believe  that  you  love  me  better 
than  I  deserve  to  be  loved,  and  I  know  that 
I  am  not  worthy  of  all  your  kind  praises. 
But  it  is  not  this  that  pains  me ;  for  I  know 
that  you  have  a  generous  heart,  and  would 
forgive,  as  you  always  have  forgiven,  any 
weakness  of  mine.  I  am  proud,  too,  very 
proud,  to  have  won  your  love ;  but  it  pains 
me — more,  perhaps,  than  you  will  believe — 
to  think  that  I  can  not  write  back  to  you  as 
I  would  wish  to  write — alas,  never." 
303 


304  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

Here  I  dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor,  and 
with  my  hand  upon  my  forehead  sit  gazing 
upon  the  glowing  coals,  and  breathing  quick 
and  loud.  The  dream,  then,  is  broken ! 

Presently  I  read  again : 

— "You  know  that  my  father  died  before 
we  had  ever  met.  He  had  an  old  friend,  who 
had  come  from  England,  and  who  in  early 
life  had  done  him  some  great  service  which 
made  him  seem  like  a  brother.  This  old  gen 
tleman  was  my  god-father,  and  called  me 
daughter.  When  my  father  died  he  drew  me 
to  his  side  and  said :  'Carry,  I  shall  leave 
you,  but  my  old  friend  will  be  your  father,' 
and  he  put  my  hand  in  his  and  said :  T  give 
you  my  daughter.' 

"This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older  than 
myself;  but  we  were  much  together,  and 
grew  up  as  brother  and  sister.  I  was  proud 
of  him,  for  he  was  tall  and  strong,  and  every 
one  called  him  handsome.  He  was  as  kind, 
too,  as  a  brother  could  be,  and  his  father 
was  like  my  own  father.  Every  one  said, 
and  believed,  that  we  would  one  day  be 
married,  and  my  mother  and  my  new  father 
spoke  of  it  openly.  So  did  Laurence,  for 
that  is  my  friend's  name. 


THE   LETTER  305 

"I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any  more,  Paul ; 
for  when  I  was  still  a  girl  we  had  promised 
that  we  would  one  day  be  man  and  wife. 
Laurence  has  been  much  in  England,  and  I 
believe  he  is  there  now.  The  old  gentleman 
treats  me  still  as  a  daughter,  and  talks  of 
the  time  when  I  shall  come  and  live  with 
him.  The  letters  of  Laurence  are  very  kind, 
and  though  he  does  not  talk  so  much  of  our 
marriage  as  he  did,  it  is  only,  I  think,  be 
cause  he  regards  it  as  so  certain. 

"I  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before, 
but  I  have  feared  to  tell  you ;  I  am  afraid  I 
have  been  too  selfish  to  tell  you.  And  now, 
what  can  I  say  ?  Laurence  seems  most  to  me 
like  a  brother — and  you,  Paul — but  I  must 
not  go  on.  For  if  I  marry  Laurence,  as  fate 
seems  to  have  decided,  I  will  try  and  love 
him  better  than  all  the  world. 

"But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love 
me,  as  you  once  loved  Bella — you  say  my 
eyes  are  like  hers,  and  that  my  forehead  is 
like  hers — will  you  not  believe  that  my  heart 
is  like  hers,  too? 

"Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter — 
I  have  shed  them  as  well  as  you.  I  can 
write  no  more  now. 

"Adieu." 


306  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR 

I  sit  long,  looking  upon  the  blaze,  and 
when  I  rouse  myself  it  is  to  say  wicked 
things  against  destiny.  Again  all  the  future 
seems  very  blank.  I  can  not  love  Carry  as  I 
loved  Bella ;  she  can  not  be  a  sister  to  me ; 
she  must  be  more  or  nothing !  Again  I  seem 
to  float  singly  on  the  tide  of  life,  and  see  all 
around  me  in  cheerful  groups.  Everywhere 
the  sun  shines,  except  upon  my  own  cold 
forehead.  There  seems  no  mercy  in  heaven, 
and  no  goodness  for  me  upon  earth. 

I  write,  after  some  days,  an  answer  to  the 
letter.  But  it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in  which  I 
forget  myself,  in  the  whirl  of  my  misfor 
tunes — to  the  utterance  of  reproaches. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet 
and  gentle.  She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches, 
deeply  hurt.  But  with  a  touching  kindness, 
of  which  I  am  not  worthy,  she  credits  all  my 
petulance  to  my  wounded  feeling;  she 
soothes  me,  but  in  soothing  only  wounds  the 
more.  I  try  to  believe  her  when  she  speaks 
of  her  unworthiness — but  I  can  not. 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition  or 
of  interest,  pass  on  like  dull,  grating  ma 
chinery.  Tasks  are  met,  and  performed 
with  strength  indeed,  but  with  no  cheer. 
Courage  is  high,  as  I  meet  the  shocks  and 


THE   LETTER  307 

trials  of  the  world ;  but  it  is  a  brute,  careless 
courage,  that  glories  in  opposition.  I  laugh 
at  any  dangers,  or  any  insidious  pitfalls ; 
what  are  they  to  me?  What  do  I  possess, 
which  it  will  be  hard  to  lose  ?  My  dog  keeps 
by  me ;  my  toils  are  present ;  my  food  is 
ready ;  my  limbs  are  strong ;  what  need  for 


more 


The  months  slip  by ;  and  the  cloud  that 
floated  over  my  evening  sun  passes. 

Laurence  wandering  abroad,  and  writing 
to  Caroline,  as  to  a  sister — writes  more  than 
his  father  could  have  wished.  He  has  met 
new  faces,  very  sweet  faces ;  and  one  which 
shows  through  the  ink  of  his  later  letters, 
very  gorgeously.  The  old  gentleman  does 
not  like  to  lose  thus  his  little  Carry !  and  he 
writes  back  rebuke.  But  Laurence,  with 
the  letters  of  Caroline  before  him  for  data, 
throws  himself  upon  his  sister's  kindness 
and  charity.  It  astonishes  not  a  little  the  old 
gentleman,  to  find  his  daughter  pleading  in 
such  strange  way  for  the  son.  "And  what 
will  you  do  then,  my  Carry  ?" — the  old  man 
says. 

— "Wear  weeds,  if  you  wish,  sir ;  and 
love  you  and  Laurence  more  than  ever !" 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom,  and  says 


308  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

— "Carry — Carry,  you  are  too  good  for  that 
wild  fellow  Laurence !" 

Now,  the  letters  are  different !  Now  they 
are  full  of  hope — dawning  all  over  the  fu 
ture  sky.  Business,  and  care,  and  toil  glide, 
as  if  a  spirit  animated  them  all ;  it  is  no 
longer  cold  machine  work,  but  intelligent 
and  hopeful  activity.  The  sky  hangs  upon 
you  lovingly,  and  the  birds  make  music  that 
startles  you  with  its  fineness.  Men  wear 
cheerful  faces ;  the  storms  have  a  kind  pity, 
gleaming  through  all  their  wrath. 

The  days  approach,  when  you  can  call  her 
yours.  For  she  has  said  it,  and  her  mother 
has  said  it ;  and  the  kind  old  gentleman,  who 
says  he  will  still  be  her  father,  has  said  it, 
too ;  and  they  have  all  welcomed  you — won 
by  her  story — with  a  cordiality  that  has 
made  your  cup  full  to  running  over.  Only 
one  thought  comes  up  to  obscure  your  joy — 
is  it  real?  or  if  real,  are  you  worthy  to  en 
joy?  Will  you  cherish  and  love  always,  as 
you  have  promised,  that  angel  who  accepts 
your  word  and  rests  her  happiness  on  your 
faith  ?  Are  there  not  harsh  qualities  in  your 
nature  which  you  fear  may  sometime  make 
her  regret  that  she  gave  herself  to  your  love 


THE   LETTER  309 

and  charity  ?  And  those  friends  who  watch 
over  her,  as  the  apple  of  their  eye,  can  you 
always  meet  their  tenderness  and  approval, 
for  your  guardianship  of  their  treasure  ?  Is 
it  not  a  treasure  that  makes  you  fearful,  as 
well  as  joyful. 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile;  her 
kindness,  her  goodness,  her  modesty,  will 
not  let  you  remember  it.  She  forbids  such 
thoughts ;  and  you  yield  such  obedience  as 
you  never  yielded  even  to  the  commands  of 
a  mother.  And  if  your  business  and  your 
labor  slip  by,  partially  neglected — what  mat 
ters  it  ?  What  is  interest  or  what  is  reputa 
tion  compared  with  that  fullness  of  your 
heart,  which  is  now  ripe  with  joy? 

The  day  for  your  marriage  comes ;  and 
you  live  as  if  you  were  in  a  dream.  You 
think  well,  and  hope  well,  for  all  the  world. 
A  flood  of  charity  seems  to  radiate  from  all 
around  you.  And  as  you  sit  beside  her  in 
the  twilight,  on  the  evening  before  the  day 
when  you  will  call  her  yours,  and  talk  of  the 
coming  hopes,  and  of  the  soft  shadows  of 
the  past,  and  whisper  of  Bella's  love,  and 
of  that  sweet  sister's  death,  and  of  Laurence, 
a  new  brother,  coming  home  joyful  with  his 


3io 


REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 


bride — and  lay  your  cheek  to  hers — life 
seems  as  if  it  were  all  day,  and  as  if  there 
could  be  no  night ! 

The  marriage  passes ;  and  she  is  yours — 
yours  forever. 


NEW 


TRAVEL 


AGAIN  I  am  upon  the  sea ;  but  not  alone. 
She  whom  I  first  met  upon  the  wastes  of 
ocean  is  there  beside  me.  Again  I  steady 
her  tottering  step  upon  the  deck;  once  it 
was  a  drifting,  careless  pleasure;  now  the 
pleasure  is  holy. 

Once  the  fear  I  felt,  as  the  storms  gath 
ered,  and  night  came,  and  the  ship  tossed 
madly,  and  great  waves  gathering  swift  and 
high,  came  down  like  slipping  mountains, 
and  spent  their  force  upon  the  quivering 
vessel,  was  a  selfish  fear.  But  it  is  so  no 
longer.  Indeed,  I  hardly  know  fear;  for 
how  can  the  tempests  harm  her?  Is  she  not 


312  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

too  good  to  suffer  any  of  the  wrath  of 
heaven  ? 

And  in  nights  of  calm — holy  nights,  we 
lean  over  the  ship's  side,  looking  down,  as 
once  before,  into  the  dark  depths,  and  mur 
mur  again  snatches  of  ocean  song,  and  talk 
of  those  we  love ;  and  we  peer  among  the 
stars,  which  seem  neighborly,  and  as  if  they 
were  the  homes  of  friends.  And  as  the 
great  ocean  swells  come  rocking  under  us, 
and  carry  us  up  and  down  along  the  valleys 
and  the  hills  of  water,  they  seem  like  deep 
pulsations  of  the  great  heart  of  nature,  heav 
ing  us  forward  toward  the  goal  of  life,  and 
to  the  gates  of  heaven. 

We  watch  the  ships  as  they  come  upon 
the  horizon,  and  sweep  toward  us,  like  false 
friends,  with  the  sun  glittering  on  their 
sails ;  and  then  shift  their  course,  and  bear 
away — with  their  bright  sails,  turned  to 
spots  of  shadow.  We  watch  the  long- 
winged  birds  skimming  the  waves  hour 
after  hour — like  pleasant  thoughts — now 
dashing  before  our  bows,  and  then  sweeping 
behind,  until  they  are  lost  in  the  hollows 
of  the  water. 

Again  life  lies  open,  as  it  did  once  before ; 
but  the  regrets,  disappointments,  and  fruit 
less  resolves  do  not  come  to  trouble  me  now. 


NEW    TRAVEL  313 

It  is  the  future,  which  has  become  as  level  as 
the  sea ;  and  she  is  beside  me — the  sharer  in 
that  future — to  look  out  with  me  upon  the 
joyous  sparkle  of  water,  and  to  count  with 
me  the  dazzling  ripples  that  lie  between  us 
and  the  shore.  A  thousand  pleasant  plans 
come  up,  and  are  abandoned,  like  the  waves 
we  leave  behind  us;  a  thousand  other  joy 
ous  plans  dawn  upon  our  fancy,  like  the 
waves  that  glitter  before  us.  We  talk  of 
Laurence  and  his  bride,  whom  we  are  to 
meet ;  we  talk  of  her  mother,  who  is  even 
now  watching  the  winds  that  waft  her  child 
over  the  ocean;  we  talk  of  the  kindly  old 
man,  her  godfather,  who  gave  her  a  father's 
blessing;  we  talk  low,  and  in  the  twilight 
hours,  of  Isabel — who  sleeps. 

At  length,  as  the  sun  goes  down  upon  a 
fair  night,  over  the  western  waters  which 
we  have  passed,  we  see  before  us  the  low 
blue  line  of  the  shores  of  Cornwall  and 
Devon.  In  the  night  shadowy  ships  glide 
past  us  with  gleaming  lanterns ;  and  in  the 
morning  we  see  the  yellow  cliffs  of  the 
Isle  of  Wight ;  and  standing  out  from  the 
land  is  the  dingy  sail  of  our  pilot.  London 
with  its  fog,  roar,  and  crowds,  has  not  the 
same  charms  that  it  once  had ;  that  roar  and 
crowd  is  good  to  make  a  man  forget  his 


314  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

griefs — forget  himself,  and  stupefy  him 
with  amazement.  We  are  in  no  need  of  such 
forgetfulness. 

We  roll  along  the  banks  of  the  sylvan 
river  that  glides  by  Hampton  Court;  and 
we  toil  up  Richmond  Hill,  to  look  together 
upon  that  scene  of  water  and  meadow — of 
leafy  copses  and  glistening  villas,  of  brown 
cottages  and  clustered  hamlets — of  solitary 
oaks  and  loitering  herds — all  spread  like  a 
veil  of  beauty  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
Thames.  But  we  can  not  linger  here,  nor 
even  under  the  glorious  old  boles  of  Wind 
sor  Forest ;  but  wre  hurry  on  to  that  sweet 
county  of  Devon,  made  green  with  its  white 
skeins  of  water. 

Again  we  loiter  under  the  oaks,  where  we 
have  loitered  before  ;  and  the  sleek  deer  gaze 
on  us  with  their  liquid  eyes  as  they  gazed 
before.  The  squirrels  sport  among  the 
boughs  as  fearless  as  ever ;  and  some  wan 
dering  puss  pricks  her  long  ears  at  our  steps 
and  bounds  off  along  the  hedgerows  to  her 
burrow.  Again  I  see  Carry  in  her  velvet 
riding-cap,  with  the  white  plume ;  and  I 
meet,  as  I  met  her  before,  under  the  princely 
trees  that  skirt  the  northern  avenue.  I  re 
call  the  evening  when  I  sauntered  out  at 
the  park  gates,  and  gained  a  blessing  from 


NEW    TRAVEL  315 

the  porter's  wife,  and  dreamed  that  strange 
dream — now,  the  dream  seems  more  real 
than  my  life.  "God  bless  you !"  said  the 
woman  again. 

— "Ay,  old  lady,  God  has  blessed  me !" — 
and  I  fling  her  a  guinea,  not  as  a  gift,  but 
as  a  debt. 

The  bland  farmer  lives  yet ;  he  scarce 
knows  me,  until  I  tell  him  of  my  bout  around 
his  oat  field  at  the  tail  of  his  long  stilted 
plow.  I  find  the  old  pew  in  the  parish 
church.  Other  holly  sprigs  are  hung  now ; 
and  I  do  not  doze,  for  Carry  is  beside  me. 
The  curate  drawls  the  service ;  but  it  is 
pleasant  to  listen ;  and  I  make  the  responses 
with  an  emphasis  that  tells  more,  I  fear,  for 
my  joy  than  for  my  religion.  The  old  groom 
at  the  mansion  in  the  park  has  not  forgotten 
the  hard  riding  of  other  days,  and  tells 
long  stories  (to  which  I  love  to  listen)  of 
the  old  visit  of  Mistress  Carry,  when  she 
followed  the  hounds  with  the  best  of  the 
English  lasses. 

— "Yer  honor  may  well  be  proud ;  for 
not  a  prettier  face,  or  a  kinder  heart,  has 
been  in  Devon  since  Mistress  Carry  left  us." 

But  pleasant  as  are  the  old  woods,  full 
of  memories,  and  pleasant  as  are  the  twi 
light  evenings  upon  the  terrace — we  must 


•I 

316  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

pass  over  to  the  mountains  of  Switzerland. 
There  we  are  to  meet  Laurence. 

Carry  has  never  seen  the  magnificence  of 
the  Juras ;  and  as  we  journey  over  the  hills 
between  Dole  and  the  border  line,  looking 
upon  the  rolling  heights  shrouded  with  pine 
trees,  and  down  thousands  of  feet,  at  the 
very  roadside,  upon  the  cottage  roofs  and 
emerald  valleys,  where  the  dun  herds  are 
feeding  quietly,  she  is  lost  in  admiration. 
At  length  we  come  to  that  point  above  the 
little  town  of  Gex,  from  which  you  see 
spread  out  before  you  the  meadows  that 
skirt  Geneva,  the  placid  surface  of  Lake  Le- 
man,  and  the  rough,  shaggy  mountains  of 
Savoy — and  far  behind  them,  breaking  the 
horizon  with  snowy  cap,  and  with  dark  pin 
nacles — Mont  Blanc,  and  the  Needles  of 
Chamouni. 

I  point  out  to  her  in  the  valley  below  the 
little  town  of  Ferney,  where  stands  the  de 
serted  chateau  of  Voltaire ;  and  beyond, 
upon  the  shores  of  the  lake,  the  old  home  of 
De  Stae'l ;  and  across,  with  its  white  walls 
reflected  upon  the  bosom  of  the  water,  the 
house  where  Byron  wrote  The  Prisoner  of 
Chilian.  Among  the  grouping  roofs  of 
Geneva  we  trace  the  dark  cathedral  and 
the  tall  hotels  shining  on  the  edge  of  the 


NEW    TRAVEL  317 

lake.  And  I  tell  of  the  time  when  I  tramped 
down  through  yonder  valley,  with  my  future 
all  visionary  and  broken,  and  drank  the 
splendor  of  the  scene,  only  as  a  quick  relief 
to  the  monotony  of  my  solitary  life. 

— "And  now,  Carry,  with  your  hand 
locked  in  mine,  and  your  heart  mine — yon 
der  lake  sleeping  in  the  sun,  and  the  snowy 
mountains  with  their  rosy  hue  seem  like  the 
smile  of  nature,  bidding  us  be  glad !" 

Laurence  is  at  Geneva ;  he  welcomes 
Carry,  as  he  would  welcome  a  sister.  He  is 
a  noble  fellow,  and  tells  me  much  of  his 
sweet  Italian  wife ;  and  presents  me  to  the 
smiling,  blushing — Enrica  !  She  has  learned 
English  now  ;  she  has  found,  she  says,  a  bet 
ter  teacher,  than  ever  I  was.  Yet  she  wel 
comes  me  warmly,  as  a  sister  might ;  and  we 
talk  of  those  old  evenings  by  the  blazing  fire, 
and  of  the  one-eyed  maestro,  as  children 
long  separated  might  talk  of  their  school 
tasks  and  of  their  teachers.  She  can  not  tell 
me  enough  of  her  praises  of  Laurence,  and 
of  his  noble  heart.  "You  were  good,"  she 
says,  "but  Laurence  is  better." 

Carry  admires  her  soft  brown  hair,  and 
her  deep  liquid  eye,  and  wonders  how  I 
could  ever  have  left  Rome? 

— Do  you  indeed  wonder — Carry  ? 


318  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

And  together  we  go  down  into  Savoy,  to 
that  marvelous  valley,  which  lies  under  the 
shoulder  of  Mont  Blanc ;  and  we  wander 
over  the  Mer  De  Glace,  and  pick  alpine  roses 
from  the  edge  of  the  frowning  glacier.  We 
toil  at  nightfall  up  to  the  monastery  of  the 
Great  St.  Bernard,  where  the  new  forming 
ice  crackles  in  the  narrow  foot-way,  and  the 
cold  moon  glistens  over  wastes  of  snow,  and 
upon  the  windows  of  the  dark  Hospice. 
Again,  we  are  among  the  granite  heights, 
whose  ledges  are  filled  with  ice,  upon  the 
Grimsel.  The  pond  is  dark  and  cold ;  the 
paths  are  slippery ;  the  great  glacier  of  the 
Aar  sends  down  icy  breezes,  and  the  echoes 
ring  from  rock  to  rock,  as  if  the  ice-god 
answered.  And  yet  we  neither  suffer  nor 
fear. 

In  the  sweet  valley  of  Meyringen,  we  part 
from  Laurence :  he  goes  northward,  by 
Grindenwald,  and  Thun — thence  to  journey 
westward,  and  to  make  for  the  Roman  girl 
a  home  beyond  the  ocean.  Enrica  bids  me 
go  on  to  Rome :  she  knows  that  Carry  will 
love  its  soft  warm  air,  its  ruins,  its  pictures 
and  temples,  better  than  these  cold  valleys 
of  Switzerland.  And  she  gives  me  kind  mes 
sages  for  her  mother,  and  for  Cesare;  and 
should  we  be  in  Rome  at  the  Easter  season, 


NEW   TRAVEL  319 

she  bids  us  remember  her,  when  we  listen  to 
the  Miserere,  and  when  we  see  the  great 
Chiesa  on  fire,  and  when  we  saunter  upon 
the  Pincian  hill — and  remember,  that  it  is 
her  home. 

We  follow  them  with  our  eyes,  as  they 
go  up  the  steep  height  over  which  falls  the 
white  foam  of  the  clattering  Reichenbach ; 
and  they  wave  their  hands  toward  us  and 
disappear  upon  the  little  plateau  which 
stretches  toward  the  crystal  Rosenlaui  and 
the  tall,  still  Engel-Horner. 

May  the  mountain  angels  guard  them. 

As  we  journey  on  toward  that  wonderful 
pass  of  Splugen  I  recall,  by  the  way,  upon 
the  heights  and  in  the  valleys,  the  spots 
where  I  lingered  years  before — here,  I 
plucked  a  flower ;  there,  I  drank  from  that 
cold,  yellow,  glacier  water ;  and  here,  upon 
some  rock  overlooking  a  stretch  of  broken 
mountains,  hoary  with  their  eternal  frosts,  I 
sat  musing  upon  that  very  Future,  which  is 
with  me  now.  But  never,  even  when  the 
ice-genii  were  most  prodigal  of  their  fancies 
to  the  wanderer,  did  I  look  for  more  joy,  or 
a  better  angel. 

Afterward,  when  all  our  trembling  upon 
the  Alpine  paths  has  gone  by,  we  are  rolling 
along  under  the  chestnuts  and  lindens  that 


32O  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

skirt  the  banks  of  Como.  We  recall  that 
sweet  story  of  Manzoni,  and  I  point  out,  as 
well  as  I  may,  the  loitering  place  of  the 
bravi,  and  the  track  of  poor  Don  Abbondio. 
We  follow  in  the  path  of  the  discomfited 
Rienzi,  to  where  the  dainty  spire,  and  pin 
nacles  of  the  Duomo  of  Milan,  glisten 
against  the  violet  sky. 

Carry  longs  to  see  Venice ;  its  water- 
streets,  and  palaces  have  long  floated  in  her 
visions.  In  the  bustling  activity  of  our  own 
country,  and  in  the  quiet  fields  of  England, 
that  strange,  half-deserted  capital  lying  in 
the  Adriatic,  has  taken  the  strongest  hold 
upon  her  fancy. 

So  we  leave  Padua  and  Verona  behind  us, 
and  find  ourselves,  upon  a  soft  spring  noon, 
upon  the  end  of  the  iron  road  which 
stretches  across  the  lagoon  toward  Venice. 
With  the  hissing  of  steam  in  the  ear  it  is 
hard  to  think  of  the  wonderful  city  we  are 
approaching.  But  as  we  escape  from  the 
carriage,  and  set  our  feet  down  into  one  of 
those  strange,  hearse-like,  ancient  boats, 
with  its  sharp  iron  prow,  and  listen  to  the 
melodious  rolling  tongue  of  the  Venetian 
gondolier ;  as  we  see  rising  over  the  watery 
plain  before  us,  all  glittering  in  the  sun,  tall 
square  towers  with  pyramidal  tops,  and 


NEW   TRAVEL  32! 

clustered  domes,  and  minarets ;  and  spark 
ling  roofs  lifting  from  marble  walls — all  so 
like  the  old  paintings — and  as  we  glide 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  floating  wonder, 
'under  the  silent  working  oar  of  our  now 
silent  gondolier — as  we  ride  up  swiftly  un 
der  the  deep,  broad  shadows  of  palaces  and 
see  plainly  the  play  of  the  sea  water  in  the 
crevices  of  the  masonry — and  turn  into  nar 
row  rivers  shaded  darkly  by  overhanging 
walls,  hearing  no  sound,  but  of  voices,  or 
the  swaying  of  the  water  against  the  houses 
—we  feel  the  presence  of  the  place.  And 
the  mistic  fingers  of  the  Past,  grappling  our 
spirits,  lead  them  away — willing  and  rejoic 
ing  captives,  through  the  long  vista  of  the 
ages  that  are  gone. 

Carry  is  in  a  trance — rapt  by  the  witchery 
of  the  scene,  into  dream.  This  is  her  Venice, 
nor  have  all  the  visions  that  played  upon  her 
fancy  been  equal  to  the  enchanting  presence 
of  this  hour  of  approach. 

Afterward  it  becomes  a  living  thing — 
stealing  upon  the  affections,  and  upon  the 
imagination  by  a  thousand  coy  advances. 
We  wander  under  the  warm  Italian  sunlight 
to  the  steps  from  which  rolled  the  white 
head  of  poor  Marino  Faliero.  The  gentle 
Carry  can  now  thrust  her  ungloved  hand 


322  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

into  the  terrible  lion's  mouth.  We  enter 
the  salon  of  the  fearful  Ten,  and  peep 
through  the  half-opened  door  into  the  cab 
inet  of  the  more  fearful  Three.  We  go 
through  the  deep  dungeons  of  Carmagnola 
and  of  Carrara ;  and  we  instruct  the  willing 
gondolier  to  push  his  dark  boat  under  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs ;  and  with  Rogers'  poem  in 
our  hand,  glide  up  to  the  prison  door  and 
read  of — 

that  fearful  closet  at  the  foot 

Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  came, 
Grew  less  and  less ;  contracting  to  a  span 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life ! 

I  sail,  listening  to  nothing  but  the  dip  of 
the  gondolier's  oar,  or  to  her  gentle  words, 
fast  under  the  palace  door,  which  closed  that 
fearful  morning  on  the  guilt  and  shame  of 
Bianca  Capello.  Or,  with  souls  lit  up  by 
the  scene,  into  a  buoyancy  that  can  scarce 
distinguish  between  what  is  real  and  what  is 
merely  written — we  chase  the  anxious  step 
of  the  forsaken  Corinna ;  or  seek  among  the 
veteran  palaces  the  casement  of  the  old  Bra- 
bantio — the  chamber  of  Desdemona — the 
house  of  Jessica,  and  trace  among  the 
strange  Jew  money-changers,  who  yet  haunt 
the  Rialto,  the  likeness  of  the  bearded  Shy- 


NEW   TRAVEL  323 

lock.  We  wander  into  stately  churches, 
brushing  over  grass,  or  tell-tale  flowers  that 
grow  in  the  court,  and  find  them  damp  and 
cheerless ;  the  incense  rises  murkily  and 
rests  in  a  thick  cloud  over  the  altars,  and 
over  the  paintings ;  the  music,  if  so  be  that 
the  organ  notes  are  swelling  under  the  roof, 
is  mournfully  plaintive. 

Of  an  afternoon  we  sail  over  to  the  Lido, 
to  gladden  our  eyes  with  a  sight  of  land  and 
green  things,  and  we  pass  none  upon  the 
way,  save  silent  oarsmen,  with  barges  piled 
high  with  the  produce  of  their  gardens — 
pushing  their  way  down  toward  the  floating 
city.  And  upon  the  narrow  island,  we  find 
Jewish  graves,  half  covered  by  drifted  sand  ; 
and  from  among  them,  watch  the  sunset 
glimmering  over  a  desolate  level  of  water. 
As  we  glide  back,  lights  lift  over  the  la 
goon,  and  double  along  the  Guideca  and  the 
Grand  Canal.  The  little  neighbor  isles  will 
have  their  company  of  lights  dancing  in  the 
water ;  and  from  among  them  will  rise  up 
against  the  mellow  evening  sky  of  Italy 
gaunt,  unlighted  houses. 

After  the  nightfall,  which  brings  no  harm 
ful  dew  with  it,  I  stroll,  with  her  hand  with 
in  my  arm — as  once  upon  the  sea,  and  in  the 
English  park,  and  in  the  homeland — over 


324  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR 

that  great  square  which  lies  before  the  pal 
ace  of  St.  Marks.  The  white  moon  is  rid 
ing  in  the  middle  heaven,  like  a  globe  of 
silver;  the  gondoliers  stride  over  the  echo 
ing  stones;  and  their  long  black  shadows, 
stretching  over  the  pavement,  or  shaking 
upon  the  moving  water,  seem  like  great  fu 
nereal  plumes,  waving  over  the  bier  of  Ven 
ice. 

Carrying  thence  whole  treasures  of 
thought  and  fancy,  to  feed  upon  in  the  after 
years,  we  wander  to  Rome. 

I  find  the  old  one-eyed  maestro,  and  am 
met  with  cordial  welcome  by  the  mother  of 
the  pretty  Enrica.  The  count  has  gone  to 
the  marshes  of  Ancona.  Lame  Pietro  still 
shuffles  around  the  boards  at  the  Lepre,  and 
the  flower  sellers  at  the  corner  bind  me  a 
more  brilliant  bouquet  than  ever  for  a  new 
beauty  at  Rome.  As  we  ramble  under  the 
broken  arches  of  the  great  aqueduct  stretch 
ing  toward  Frascati,  I  tell  Carry  the  story 
of  my  trip  in  the  Appenines,  and  we  search 
for  the  pretty  Carlotta.  But  she  is  married, 
they  tell  us,  to  a  Neapolitan  guardsman.  In 
the  spring  twilight  we  wander  upon  those 
heights  which  lie  between  Frascati  and  Al- 
bano,  and  looking  westward,  see  that  glo 
rious  view  of  the  Campagna,  which  can 


NEW   TRAVEL  325 

never  be  forgotten.  But  beyond  the  Cam- 
pagna,  and  beyond  the  huge  hulk  of  St. 
Peter's,  heaving  into  the  sky  from  the  mid 
dle  waste,  we  see,  or  fancy  we  see,  a  glimpse 
of  the  sea,  which  stretches  out  and  on  to  the 
land  we  love,  better  than  Rome.  And  in 
fancy  we  build  up  that  home,  which  shall 
belong  to  us  on  the  return — a  home  that  has 
slumbered  long  in  the  future,  and  which, 
now  that  the  future  has  come,  lies  fairly  be 
fore  me. 


HOME 

YEARS  seem  to  have  passed.  They  have 
mellowed  life  into  ripeness.  The  start,  and 
change,  and  hot  ambition  of  youth  seem  to 
have  gone  by.  A  calm  and  joyful  quietude 
has  succeeded.  That  future  which  still  lies 
before  me  seems  like  a  roseate  twilight, 
sinking  into  a  peaceful  and  silent  night. 

My  home  is  a  cottage,  near  that  where 
Isabel  once  lived.  The  same  valley  is  around 
me ;  the  same  brook  rustles  and  loiters  under 
the  gnarled  roots  of  the  overhanging  trees. 
The  cottage  is  no  mock  cottage,  but  a  sub 
stantial,  wide-spreading  cottage,  with  clus 
tering  gables  and  ample  shade,  such  a  cot 
tage  as  they  build  upon  the  slopes  of  Devon. 
327 


328  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

Vines  clamber  over  it,  and  the  stones  show 
mossy  through  the  interlacing  climbers. 
There  are  low  porches,  with  cozy  armchairs, 
and  generous  oriels,  fragrant  with  mignon 
ette,  and  the  blue  blossoming  violets. 

The  chimney  stacks  rise  high  and  show 
clear  against  the  heavy  pine  trees,  that  ward 
off  the  blasts  of  winter.  The  dovecote  is  a 
habited  dovecote,  and  the  purple-necked 
pigeons  swoop  around  the  roofs  in  great 
companies.  The  hawthorn  is  budding  into 
its  June  fragrance  along  all  the  lines  of 
fence,  and  the  paths  are  trim  and  clean.  The 
shrubs — our  neglected  azaleas  and  rhodo 
dendrons  chiefest  among  them — stand  in 
picturesque  groups  upon  the  close-shaven 
lawn. 

The  gateway  in  the  thicket  below  is  be 
tween  two  mossy  old  posts  of  stone ;  and 
there  is  a  tall  hemlock  flanked  by  a  sturdy 
pine  for  sentinel.  Within  the  cottage  the 
library  is  wainscoted  with  native  oak,  and 
my  trusty  gun  hangs  upon  a  branching  pair 
of  antlers.  My  rod  and  nets  are  disposed 
above  the  generous  bookshelves  ;  and  a  stout 
eagle,  once  a  tenant  of  the  native  woods,  sits 
perched  over  the  central  alcove.  An  old- 
fashioned  mantel  is  above  the  'brown  stone 
jambs  of  the  country  fireplace,  and  along  it 


HOME  329 

are  distributed  records  of  travel,  little  bronze 
temples  from  Rome,  the  pietro  duro  of 
Florence,  the  porcelain  busts  of  Dresden, 
the  rich  iron  of  Berlin,  and  a  cup  fashioned 
from  a  stag's  horn,  from  the  Black  Forest 
by  the  Rhine. 

Massive  chairs  stand  here  and  there,  in 
tempting  attitude ;  strewed  over  an  oaken 
table  in  the  middle  are  the  uncut  papers  and 
volumes  of  the  day,  and  upon  a  lion's  skin, 
stretched  before  the  hearth,  is  lying  another 
Tray. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  children  in 
the  cottage.  There  is  Jamie — we  think  him 
handsome — for  he  has  the  dark  hair  of 
his  mother — and  the  same  black  eye,  with  its 
long,  heavy  fringe.  There  is  Carry — little 
Carry  I  must  call  her  now — with  a  face  full 
of  glee  and  rosy  with  health ;  then  there  is  a 
little  rogue  some  two  years  old,  whom  we 
call  Paul — a  very  bad  boy — as  we  tell  him. 

The  mother  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and 
far  more  dear  to  me,  for  gratitude  has  been 
adding,  year  by  year,  to  love.  There  have 
been  times  when  a  harsh  word  of  mine, 
uttered  in  the  fatigues  of  business,  has 
touched  her,  and  I  have  seen  that  soft  eye 
fill  with  tears,  and  I  have  upbraided  myself 
for  causing  her  one  pang.  But  such  things 


330  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

she  does  not  remember,  or  remembers  only 
to  cover  with  her  gentle  forgiveness. 

Laurence  and  Enrica  are  living  near  us. 
And  the  old  gentleman,  who  was  Carry's 
god-father,  sits  with  me,  on  sunny  days 
upon  the  porch,  and  takes  little  Paul  upon 
his  knee,  and  wonders  if  two  such  daughters 
as  Enrica  and  Carry  are  to  be  found  in  the 
world.  At  twilight  we  ride  over  to  see  Lau 
rence  ;  Jamie  mounts  with  the  coachman, 
little  Carry  puts  on  her  wide-rimmed  Leg 
horn  for  the  evening  visit,  and  the  old  gen 
tleman's  plea  for  Paul  can  not  be  denied. 
The  mother,  too,  is  with  us,  and  old  Tray 
comes  whisking  along,  now  frolicking  be 
fore  the  horses'  heads,  and  then  bounding 
off  after  the  flight  of  some  belated  bird. 

Away  from  that  cottage  home  I  seem 
away  from  life.  Within  it,  that  broad  and 
shadowy  future,  which  lay  before  me  in  boy 
hood  and  in  youth,  is  garnered — like  a  fine 
mist,  gathered  into  drops  of  crystal. 

And  when  away — those  long  letters,  dat 
ing  from  the  cottage  home,  are  what  tie  me 
to  life.  That  cherished  wife,  far  dearer  to 
me  now  than  when  she  wrote  that  first  let 
ter,  which  seemed  a  dark  veil  between  me 
and  the  future — writes  me  now  as  tenderly 
as  then.  She  narrates  in  her  delicate  way 


HOME  331 

all  the  incidents  of  the  home  life;  she  tells 
me  of  their  rides,  and  of  their  games,  and  of 
the  new  planted  trees  —  of  all  their  sunny 
days,  and  of  their  frolics  on  the  lawn;  she 
tells  me  how  Jamie  is  studying,  and  of  lit 
tle  Carry's  beauty  growing  every  day,  and 
of  roguish  Paul  —  so  like  his  father.  And 
she  sends  such  a  kiss  from  each  of  them, 
and  bids  me  such  adieu  and  such  "God's 
blessing"  that  it  seems  as  if  an  angel  guard 
ed  me. 

But  this  is  not  all  ;  for  Jamie  has  written 
a  postscript  : 

-  "Dear  father,"  he  says,  "mother  wishes  me 
to  tell  you  how  I  am  studying.  What  would  you 
think,  father,  to  have  me  talk  in  French  to  you, 
when  you  come  back?  I  wish  you  would  come 
back,  though  ;  the  hawthorns  are  coming  out,  and 
the  apricot  under  my  window  is  all  full  of  blos 
soms.  If  you  should  bring  me  a  present,  as  you  al 
most  always  do,  I  would  like  a  fishing  rod.  Your 
affectionate  son,  JAMIE." 

And  little  Carry  has  her  fine,  rambling 
characters  running  into  a  second  postscript  : 


^  don't  you  come,  papa;  you  stay  too  long; 
I  have  ridden  the  pony  twice;  once  he  most  threw 
me  off.  This  is  all  from  CARRY." 

And  Paul  has  taken  the  pen,  too,  and  in 
his  extraordinary  effort  to  make  a  big  P,  has 


332  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

made  a  very  big  blot.  And  Jamie  writes 
under  it — 'This  is  Paul's  work,  pa ;  but  he 
says  it's  a  love  blot,  only  he  loves  you  ten 
hundred  times  more." 

And  after  your  return  Jamie  will  insist 
that  you  should  go  with  him  to  the  brook, 
and  sit  down  with  him  upon  a  tuft  of  the 
brake,  to  fling  off  a  line  into  the  eddies, 
though  only  the  nibbling  roach  are  sporting 
below.  You  have  instructed  the  workmen 
to  spare  the  clumps  of  bank-willows,  that 
the  wood-duck  may  have  a  covert  in  winter, 
and  that  the  Bob-o'-Lincolns  may  have  a 
quiet  nesting  place  in  the  spring. 

Sometimes  your  wife — too  kind  to  deny 
such  favor — will  stroll  with  you  along  the 
meadow  banks,  and  you  pick  meadow  daisies 
in  memory  of  the  old  time.  Little  Carry 
weaves  them  into  rude  chaplets,  to  dress  the 
forehead  of  Paul,  and  they  dance  along  the 
greensward,  and  switch  off  the  daffodils, 
and  blow  away  the  dandelion  seeds,  to  see 
if  their  wishes  are  to  come  true.  Jamie  holds 
a  buttercup  under  Carry's  chin,  to  find  if  she 
loves  gold ;  and  Paul,  the  rogue,  teases  them 
by  sticking  a  thistle  into  sister's  curls. 

The  pony  has  hard  work  to  do  under 
Carry's  swift  riding — but  he  is  fed  by  her 
own  hand,  with  the  cold  breakfast  rolls. 


HOME  333 

The  nuts  are  gathered  in  time,  and  stored 
for  long  winter  evenings,  when  the  fire  is 
burning  bright  and  cheerily — a  true,  hickory 
blaze — which  sends  its  waving  gleams  over 
eager,  smiling  faces,  and  over  well-stored 
book  shelves,  and  portraits  of  dear,  lost 
ones.  While  from  time  to  time,  that  wife, 
who  is  the  soul  of  the  scene,  will  break  upon 
the  children's  prattle,  with  the  silver  melody 
of  her  voice,  running  softly  and  sweetly 
through  the  couplets  of  Crabbe's  stories,  or 
the  witchery  of  the  Flodden  tale. 

Then  the  boys  will  guess  conundrums, 
and  play  at  fox  and  geese ;  and  Tray,  cher 
ished  in  his  age,  and  old  Milo  petted  in  his 
dotage,  lie  side  by  side  upon  the  lion's  skin 
before  the  blazing  hearth.  Little  Tomtit  the 
goldfinch  sits  sleeping  on  his  perch,  or  cocks 
his  eye  at  a  sudden  crackling  of  the  fire  for 
a  familiar  squint  upon  our  family  group. 

But  there  is  no  future  without  its  strag 
gling  clouds.  Even  now  a  shadow  is  trailing 
along  the  landscape. 

It  is  a  soft  and  mild  day  of  summer.  The 
leaves  are  at  their  fullest.  A  southern 
breeze  has  been  blowing  up  the  valley  all  the 
morning,  and  the  light,  smoky  haze  hangs 
in  the  distant  mountain  gaps,  like  a  veil  on 
beauty.  Jamie  has  been  busy  with  his  les- 

•  «*=- 


334  REVERIES  OF   A    BACHELOR 

sons,  and  afterward  playing  with  Milo  upon 
the  lawn.  Little  Carry  has  come  in  from  a 
long  ride — her  face  blooming,  and  her  eyes 
all  smiles  and  joy.  The  mother  has  busied 
herself  with  those  flowers  she  loves  so  well. 
Little  Paul,  they  say,  has  been  playing  in  the 
meadow,  and  old  Tray  has  gone  with  him. 

But  at  dinner  time  Paul  has  not  come 
back. 

"Paul  ought  not  to  ramble  off  so  far,"  I 
say. 

The  mother  says  nothing,  but  there  is  a 
look  of  anxiety  upon  her  face  that  disturbs 
me.  Jamie  wonders  where  Paul  can  be,  and 
he  saves  for  him  whatever  he  knows  Paul 
will  like — a  heaping  plateful.  But  the  dinner 
hour  passes  and  Paul  does  not  come.  Old 
Tray  lies  in  the  sunshine  by  the  porch. 

Now  the  mother  is  indeed  anxious.  And 
I,  though  I  conceal  this  from  her,  find  my 
fears  strangely  active.  Something  like  in 
stinct  guides  me  to  the  meadow ;  I  wander 
down  the  brook-side,  calling — Paul — Paul! 
But  there  is  no  answer. 

All  the  afternoon  we  search,  and  the 
neighbors  search ;  but  it  is  a  fruitless  toil. 
There  is  no  joy  that  evening;  the  meal 
passes  in  silence;  only  little  Carry,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  asks — if  Paul  will  soon 


HOME  335 

come  back?  All  the  night  we  search  and 
call — the  mother  even  braving  the  night  air, 
and  running  here  and  there,  until  the  morn 
ing  finds  us  sad  and  despairing. 

That  day — the  next — cleared  up  the  mys 
tery,  but  cleared  it  up  with  darkness.  Poor 
little  Paul ! — he  has  sunk  under  the  murder 
ous  eddies  of  the  brook !  His  boyish  prattle, 
his  rosy  smiles,  his  artless  talk,  are  lost  to  us 
forever ! 

I  will  not  tell  how  nor  when  we  found 
him,  nor  will  I  tell  of  our  desolate  home, 
and  of  her  grief — the  first  crushing  grief  of 
her  life. 

The  cottage  is  still.  The  servants  glide 
noiseless,  as  if  they  might  startle  the  poor 
little  sleeper.  The  house  seems  cold — very 
cold.  Yet  it  is  summer  weather ;  and  the 
south  breeze  plays  softly  along  the  meadow 
and  softly  over  the  murderous  eddies  of  the 
brook. 

Then  comes  the  hush  of  burial.  The  kind 
mourners  are  there ;  it  is  easy  for  them  to 
mourn !  The  good  clergyman  prays  by  the 
bier :  "Oh,  Thou,  who  didst  take  upon  Thy 
self  human  woe,  and  drank  deep  of  every 
pang  in  life,  let  Thy  spirit  come  and  heal 


336  REVERIES   OF   A   BACHELOR 

this  grief,  and  guide  toward  that  better 
Land,  where  justice  and  love  shall  reign, 
and  hearts  laden  with  anguish  shall  rest  for 
evermore !" 

Weeks  roll  on,  and  a  smile  of  resignation 
lights  up  the  saddened  features  of  the 
mother.  Those  dark  mourning  robes  speak 
to  the  heart  deeper  and  more  tenderly  than 
ever  the  bridal  costume.  She  lightens  the 
weight  of  your  grief  by  her  sweet  words  of 
resignation :  "Paul/5  she  says,  "God  has 
taken  our  boy !" 

Other  weeks  roll  on.  Joys  are  still  left — 
great  and  ripe  joys.  The  cottage  smiling  in 
the  autumn  sunshine  is  there ;  the  birds  are 
in  the  forest  boughs ;  Jamie  and  little  Carry 
are  there ;  and  she,  who  is  more  than  them 
all,  is  cheerful  and  content.  Heaven  has 
taught  us  that  the  brightest  future  has  its 
clouds — that  this  life  is  a  motley  of  lights 
and  shadows.  And  as  we  look  upon  the 
world  around  us,  and  upon  the  thousand 
forms  of  human  misery,  there  is  a  gladness 
in  our  deep  thanksgiving. 

A  year  goes  by,  but  it  leaves  no  added 
shadow  on  our  hearthstone.  The  vines 
clamber  and  flourish ;  the  oaks  are  winning 
age  and  grandeur;  little  Carry  is  blooming 
into  the  pretty  coyness  of  girlhood,  and 


HOME  337 

Jamie,  with  his  dark  hair  and  flashing  eyes, 
is  the  pride  of  his  mother. 

There  is  no  alloy  to  pleasure,  but  the  re 
membrance  of  poor  little  Paul.  And  even 
that,  chastened  as  it  is  with  years,  is  rather  a 
grateful  memorial  that  our  life  is  not  all 
here  than  a  grief  that  weighs  upon  our 
hearts. 

Sometimes,  leaving  little  Carrie  and  Jamie 
to  their  play,  we  wander  at  twilight  to  the 
willow  tree  beneath  which  our  drowned  boy 
sleeps  calmly  for  the  great  Awaking.  It  is 
a  Sunday,  in  the  week-day  of  our  life,  to 
linger  by  the  little  grave — to  hang  flowers 
upon  the  head-stone,  and  to  breathe  a  prayer 
that  our  little  Paul  may  sleep  well  in  the 
arms  of  Him  who  loveth  children. 

And  her  heart,  and  my  heart,  knit  to 
gether  by  sorrow,  as  they  had  been  knit  by 
joy — a  silver  thread  mingled  with  the  gold 
— follow  the  dead  one  to  the  land  that  is  be 
fore  us,  until  at  last  we  come  to  reckon  the 
boy  as  living  in  the  new  home  which,  when 
this  is  old,  shall  be  ours  also.  And  my  spirit, 
speaking  to  his  spirit,  in  the  evening 
watches,  seems  to  say  joyfully — so  joyfully 
that  the  tears  half  choke  the  utterance — 
"Paul,  my  boy,  we  will  be  there!" 

And  the  mother,  turning  her  face  to  mine, 


338  REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR 

so  that  I  see  the  moisture  in  her  eye,  and 
catch  its  heavenly  look,  whispers  softly — so 
softly  that  an  angel  might  have  said  it — 
"Yes,  dear,  we  will  be  THERE  !" 


The  night  had  now  come,  and  my  day  un 
der  the  oaks  was  ended.  But  a  crimson  belt 
yet  lingered  over  the  horizon,  though  the 
stars  were  out. 

A  line  of  shaggy  mist  lay  along  the  sur 
face  of  the  brook.  I  took  my  gun  from  be 
side  the  tree,  and  my  shot-pouch  from  its 
limb,  and,  whistling  for  Carlo — as  if  it  had 
been  Tray — I  strolled  over  the  bridge,  and 
down  the  lane,  to  the  old  house  under  the 
elms. 

I  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  that  night — 
for  I  dreamed  that  my  reverie  was  real. 


THE   END 


X 


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